Cold War
by life among the dead
Summary: This is how G and Sam met. Warning-SLASH. Don't Like Don't Read
1. Chapter 1

It's easy to forget, sometimes, that the Cold War is over.

Aside from a few bustling, ultra-modern enclaves, Eastern Europe seems much as it ever was.

The damp, bitter cold. The grim Soviet-era housing blocs where faceless citizens, wrapped against the wind, scuttle like ants from building to building. The complex web of centuries-old grudges and rapidly shifting loyalties that lies just beneath the surface of things, luring the unwary into a potentially fatal misstep.

Even a bombed-out street, stark reminder of a recent terrorist attack, could easily be post-war ruins, especially when wrapped in a dank, smothering mist.

And then there's the moment that always happens. G could be browsing a local farmer's market, posing as a tourist, or in a pub watching a soccer match. Maybe it's the murmur of voices with their thick accents, or the sharp smell of paprika and onions, or the sound of a violin from an old radio in a shop window.

It's the moment when his brain stops thinking in English. Another language takes over as the edges of his memory soften. If he closes his eyes, he can let the feeling wash over him. If he were a different kind of man, he would call the feeling 'familiarity' or even 'belonging.'

It doesn't last. The harder he tries to grasp at it, the quicker it retreats, leaving bitter loneliness in its wake. But if he stands very still and doesn't try to hold on, the feeling will settle on him as softly as a butterfly alighting on an outstretched hand.

It's in one of these moments that he allows himself to be captured. He's standing on the bridge in the old city, leaning over the rail and looking down at the water. Even as his ears pick up the sound of a car motor idling in the dark, the feeling brushes against the edge of his consciousness.

G closes his eyes, and the feeling comes closer. The soothing song of the water below becomes the sound of a voice quietly humming a melody. His hand seems suddenly smaller, enveloped in the comforting pressure of a much larger hand. His skin tingles, sensing warmth that isn't there.

Footsteps quicken.

The moment vanishes.

As the bag comes down over his head, G cries out, but in disappointment rather than terror.

* * *

><p>He fights, of course. It would be suspicious otherwise. When they work him over for a few days, he resists. And when the sharp-faced officer arrives...well, it's not the first time someone's done that to G, and it probably won't be the last.<p>

The officer seems to take more pleasure in his work than some, and he certainly likes to take his time. Then again, G had done his research. He knew the man had a type. It's why he'd grown his hair out for this op, and dressed a certain way. And, over the years, he'd found that having pretty blue eyes could come in handy in more ways than one. It works well for the op, after all, giving G an excuse to break. Anything sooner would have aroused suspicion. After he talks, they throw him into a holding tank while they check out his intel.

That was the whole purpose of the op - to introduce false data into the system, like a virus in a computer. Now Gibbs can follow the trail and see where it leads, can find out who can be trusted and who is for sale.

G's only remaining task is to stay alive and wait for extraction. It's not easy. It's November, and the bitter cold in the cell creeps into his bones and settles there. G passes the time by staying in shape, as much as he can in his battered condition, and practicing his Russian.

He keeps hoping one of his special moments will happen and the mysterious feeling will arrive, but it never does.

Then one night, a month into his wait, he spikes a fever. He lies shivering under the thin wool blanket, alternately boiling and freezing. His teeth chatter and his muscles ache as badly as from a beating. Sounds waver between muffled and too loud, and the darkness seems thick and palpable.

Then it happens. G swears he can feel a cool, firm hand pressed to his brow and a soft voice promising him he'll be okay.

Memories rise to the surface: A restless heat, a hand on his forehead, a voice promising relief.

With a start, G realizes there is an actual hand on him, but it's gloved and pressed over his mouth. Thinking it's the sharp-faced officer, G panics and struggles.

A light appears. It makes G's eyes, used to the darkness, sting and water, but it also shows him his assailant.

It's not the officer. This man has a round, pleasant, handsome face, although it's currently creased in a frown. He's dressed in black and has a pair of night vision goggles perched on his forehead. He holds the tiny flashlight on just long enough for G to see him and stop struggling, then clicks it off.

In the darkness, his deep voice is calm and reassuring.

"I'm Sam Hanna," he says. "I'm with the US Navy SEALs. We're here to get you out."

* * *

><p>Sam's last assignment with the SEALs is a simple extraction.<p>

If he were a different kind of man, he might be offended by how pedestrian the assignment is. But Sam is a SEAL right down to his bones. He knows there are no unimportant missions, especially in these complex times. The job's not glamorous or high-profile, but it needs to get done and Sam Hanna has been chosen to see it through.

Still, he feels a pang as he readies the raft. The Navy has been his life, his family, his structure - his everything, really. Retiring is a necessary step, given his age and his history of injuries. But that doesn't make it easy.

Sam sternly reminds himself to focus, then slips into the water and allows his mission mindset to take over. Onshore, he and his team members quickly eliminate the guards. Sam signals the others to stay, then slips inside the building, locates the correct holding cell, and enters.

The target of their rescue mission is an American agent. Sam was shown pictures during mission briefing, so he's able to identify him through his night vision goggles as the man huddled under the wool blanket. His hands are bound, but he's not shackled to the cot, so the extraction should proceed quickly.

Still, Sam hesitates. This man seems smaller somehow than Sam had expected. His face is marred by fading cuts and bruises, and he's clearly ill. His breathing is harsh and labored, and he's shivering hard enough to shake the narrow metal cot, even though it's bolted to the floor.

Sam swears under his breath. Intel had assured him the man - Callen was his name - was a highly experienced agent and that the extraction would be almost routine. It's why Sam chose to breach the facility alone, leaving the rest of his team outside. If he has to carry Callen, it could seriously slow him down, potentially giving the other guards time to find their murdered comrades and raise the alarm.

Sam hesitates again, the strips off his glove and presses his bare hand to Callen's forehead. Sure enough, it's hot with fever.

Callen sighs in his sleep.

Sam finds himself holding his breath.

Callen turns his head slightly, as if seeking Sam's touch, and presses his forehead into Sam's palm. He mutters something that's not in English.

Something unexpected catches at Sam's heart and tugs, hard. Before he realizes what he's doing, he's mumuring reassurances.

"You're gonna be okay now," he whispers, stroking Callen's sweat-damp hair off his forehead. "You're safe. I got you."

With a start, Sam realizes his entire team is listening on the com. He silently curses himself, then speaks.

"Target is incapacitated," he tells them. "May need a carry. Hold your positions and await further orders."

The com crackles, then his second-in-command comes on the line. "Roger that."

Sam determinedly pulls his glove back on and presses it firmly over Callen's mouth. Callen wakes with a start, clearly panicked, and struggles against Sam's grip.

Sam is ready. He pulls up his goggles and turns on his Mag light for a second, just long enough to illuminate his face and let Callen know he's not one of his captors. Callen blinks at the light. Then his eyes sharpen with understanding and he nods.

Sam turns off the light.

"I'm Sam Hanna," he whispers. "I'm with the US Navy SEALs. We're here to get you out."

Callen rolls out of bed and crouches next to Sam. "Lead the way." His voice is husky from lack of use.

Sam can feel the heat radiating off Callen's skin, but he seems mobile and able to walk on his own.

"Follow me," he orders. As he retraces his steps with Callen at his heels, a thought occurs to him, something his brain noticed in that split second of illumination but is only now processing.

Agent Callen has the bluest eyes Sam has ever seen.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turns out, Sam's last assignment for the SEALs is his first assignment for NCIS.

The rest of the extraction proceeds without a hitch. Callen may be sick as a dog, but he's agile and strong and follows Sam's orders without hesitation.

The sun is rising by the time the raft returns to the boat. As the rope ladder comes down, Callen holds out his hands. Sam realizes with a start they're still bound, and that he was so rattled back at the prison he didn't even notice.

"Pretty sure I'm not a flight risk," Callen says, and yes, that is definitely a smirk on his face. In the golden light of morning, his eyes are an even more startling blue.

Sam pulls his knife. "Hold still."

Callen doesn't flinch as Sam cuts the ties, just nods his thanks and absently rubs his bruised wrists. He does flinch, however, when he looks up the side of the boat. It's a small boat and not a long climb, but Callen suddenly looks exhausted, his face grey even in the mild morning light.

Sam moves to help him up the ladder, but Callen jerks away sharply. "I got it."

Sam's not sure he does, but he's not going to push it. He climbs the ladder first, though, just in case Callen decides he needs assistance after all. His second holds the ladder steady, or as much as he can in a bobbing raft, while Callen climbs. His movements are slow, and by the time he reaches the top, he's shaking like a leaf.

Sam resists the urge to help him over the rail. Callen leans against the bulkhead, breathing hard, and closes his eyes for a long moment.

The rest of the team swiftly climbs aboard, and the boat immediately heads for open water. As it does, Callen turns his head and resolutely looks forward, not back.

While the others change out of their night gear, the youngest member of their team approaches.

"This is Kyle," Sam tells Callen. "He's our medic. He'll check you out."

Callen frowns. "I'm fine."

"That wasn't a question," Sam says mildly.

Callen's blue eyes narrow, and his chin gets a stubborn tilt to it. Sam just returns his gaze calmly, like he would with an angry two-year-old.

Callen's frown deepens. He looks at the rail, and for a moment Sam gets the crazy notion he might jump overboard. Then he turns back and smirks.

"Lead the way," he says to Kyle, then follows as Kyle leads him below decks.

As it turns out, Callen is nursing a walloping case of pneumonia. Kyle doses him to the gills with antibiotics, and Callen sleeps almost the entire way to the Mediterranean, where they're scheduled to rendezvous with his handler in Spain. There, the rest of the team will return to active duty, and Sam...well, Sam's not sure what his next move is. He's actually glad when he's ordered to accompany Callen. It gives him a task to complete.

Callen doesn't say a word on the way to the rendezvous, which takes place at an NCIS field office. Sam knows Callen's handler is an agent named Gibbs, because it was in the mission brief. He's somewhat surprised, then, when Gibbs' second shows up.

Sam takes an instant dislike to the man. He knows the type—good looking, cocky, the kind who hides keen intelligence and competence behind a mask of goofiness and smarm. He reminds himself that agents are spies, not soldiers. Their job is to go undercover, infiltrate enemy operations, make people trust them through deceit and guile. It takes a different set of skills than open warfare.

He's also surprised when Callen is retired. Or at least, that's what it looks like is happening. The field office is small but modern and high-tech, all brick and glass and computers. Gibbs' man — DiNozzo is his name — uses a narrow, glass-walled conference room to debrief Callen. Sam, seated in the outer office, finds that if he angles his body a certain way, he can watch the room even as he pretends to read a month-old copy of Stars and Stripes. He feels guilty, but for some reason is compelled to watch.

The debrief takes less than ten minutes. Callen has his back to Sam, but Sam can see he's giving his report. As Callen speaks, DiNozzo just nods and jots a few notes on a pad of paper. Then both men rise, and DiNozzo shakes Callen's hand.

Sam knows that handshake. It's the "so long and good luck" handshake he himself recently received. The waiting room suddenly seems too small, with not enough air. Sam rises abruptly and walks out the door.

The field office may be modern, but it's still built in a traditional Mediterranean style, with a thick, faceless exterior built around an inner sanctuary: a lush garden with cool, flowing water.

Sam walks blindly past the orange trees and the gurgling fountain to the far end of the terraced garden, which looks out over the city toward the distant bay. He stares longingly at the ships in the harbor.

A cough interrupts him. Sam turns to see a tall, handsome man lighting a cigar. He wears an expensive suit, sports a neatly trimmed moustache, and has a boxer's carriage — strong, but light on his feet.

He exhales smoke and coughs again.

"Sorry," he says apologetically. "My wife made me quit. I'm not as used to these things as I once was."

Sam looks around. There's no one else in the garden. "Where's your wife?"

"Maryland."

Sam blinks in surprise. "Then how could she know whether or not you smoke?"

"Trust me," the man says darkly, "she has her ways." He holds out his hand. "Leon Vance. Acting Assistant Director to Acting Director of European Operations, NCIS, blah blah blah."

Sam laughs and shakes his hand. "I'm—"

"Sam Hanna, former Navy SEAL," the man says easily. "Cigar?" he adds as Sam frowns.

"No, thank you," Sam says stiffly.

"Relax," Vance says. "It's my job to know who people are." He takes another drag of his cigar. "I've been watching you for some time. As a matter of fact, I was the one who recommended you for this assignment. You did well, by the way."

Sam fights back his annoyance. "It seemed rather a routine mission," he says through gritted teeth. "Sir."

"Perhaps, under the circumstances," Vance says cryptically. "But there's still another leg of the journey to complete. The assignment is yours, if you want it."

"I don't understand."

"As you may have noticed, Agent Callen is being removed from the European theater."

Sam feels a pang of guilt, like he got caught with his hand in his mama's cookie jar. "I did get that impression," he admits.

"And you want to know why."

"I..." Caught out, Sam fumbles for words.

Vance smiles blandly. "This is how you came to my attention, Mr. Hanna. Your superiors felt you had certain skills, a certain way of thinking, that might prove useful in other arenas. Call it a different way to serve your country."

"Cut the crap," Sam says tiredly. "Just tell me the assignment."

Vance laughs. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. You have the ability to think on your feet, Hanna. To ask questions and even buck the chain of command, if necessary, to get the job done. Not every soldier has those abilities."

"So?" Sam asks.

"So..." Vance drops his cigar to the stone terrace and grinds it out underfoot. "Callen is over-exposed in Eastern Europe. It makes him a danger, not just to himself, but to other agents, and indeed, American interests in the region. Like you, he's being re-assigned to a different arena."

"Great. Where do I fit in?"

"I need someone to escort Callen back to the States."

Sam blinks. "That's it?"

"That's it."

Sam frowns. "I don't get it. Callen is a highly trained agent. Why would he need an escort? If he's traveling undercover, wouldn't my presence just draw more attention to him?"

He remembers Callen's smirk in the raft. "Wait a minute. Callen's not at risk for defection, is he?"

Vance gives a bark of laughter. "Hardly. We just need someone to watch his back while he travels."

"Why?" Sam asks bluntly.

Vance's smile grows wider, his white teeth gleaming. "I'll tell you what, Hanna. If you can deliver Callen to Los Angeles in one piece, you just might have yourself a new job."


	3. Chapter 3

Even in the damn Mediterranean, G can't get warm. The cold that crawled inside his bones refuses to leave, and he finds himself shivering in broad daylight on the deck of the ship.

That's another thing that pisses him off.

He can handle getting reassigned. After all, he and Gibbs had discussed the possibility before the op. Gibbs is setting up a new office stateside - in DC, no less. It's a good fit for him, one where he can get a lot of mileage. (Mileage for Gibbs means putting away a lot of bad guys.) But he won't have time to run European ops anymore, let alone be G's handler, and everyone else refuses to work with him.

Which is just fine by G, because he likewise refuses to work with them.

Gibbs got him. Aside from basic mission parameters, he let G run his ops his way and never tried to micromanage him. The rest of the handlers he's worked for think G's a loose cannon, which made them crack down on him even more, which in turn had the opposite effect of making him even more reckless and recalcitrant.

G knows his attitude has a name. It's called Oppositional Defiant Disorder. It's scribbled all over his files, from his very first foster home all the way through NCIS. Hell, he's got half the alphabet written in those files: ODD. ADHD. PTSD.

Somehow knowing all the names doesn't make it any easier to stop the behavior.

Which brings him back to the matter at hand. He's not pissed about being reassigned. Nor is he pissed that Gibbs couldn't make it to the debrief. From what Gibbs' man told him, the op was a success. The virus is spreading through Eastern Europe, with a clean-up operation on its heels. That clean sweep is Gibbs' last gift to the European theater before he leaves, a gift G bought with his blood.

As far as he's concerned, it was worth every drop.

He's certainly not pissed about being reassigned to the new office in California. He doesn't have any sense of LA being home, but at least he knows it's warm there.

He pauses to tuck the blanket more tightly around him, glaring at the blue sky overhead.

No, right now there are only two things pissing him off, besides the damn cold: That he's forced to travel A) by ship, accompanied by B) that damn SEAL.

This is all Vance's idea. Now that Gibbs is no longer there to run interference between them, he gets to fuck with G all he wants.

The thing is, G physically cannot stand feeling tied down. Wherever he is, he needs to know that can leave immediately and go somewhere else. If he gets the itch, he grabs his duffel and he's gone.

The converse is, he hates being in places he can't easily leave. Say, airplanes. Trains. Boats. Hell, a long car ride is almost unbearable, and as for being on an island — well, unless G can swim to shore, it ain't happening.

He'll do anything he needs to for the job, of course. A long undercover assignment in one place, a stint in a Soviet-style prison, sure. He'd been dreading the eight-hour flight back to the States, but he knew he could handle it.

But a three-week ocean voyage? This is torture.

The ship is a Navy surveillance vessel in the form of a rusting cargo ship. It actually does carry freight, along with several million dollars' worth of hidden and sophisticated spy gear.

When G gets his orders, the look on his face must be priceless, because Vance grins smugly at him around his cigar.

"I always wanted to travel by tramp steamer," he says. "Just like Jack London. It'll be right up your alley, right, Callen?"

G wants to punch Vance in the face, or at least tell him where to get fucked. But Sam Hanna is there, silently watching their exchange, and G doesn't want to lose control in front of him.

Which brings him to item B.

Okay, the boat thing is annoying as hell, but G can see the logic behind it. He knows he's not at one hundred percent yet, after what happened on the op. He knows that, by putting him on the proverbial slow boat, Vance is giving him a chance to get his shit together before he reaches LA. G needs to be more than one hundred percent if the new office is going to succeed – he needs to be at the very top of his game. NCIS can't afford to risk hiring an agent who's not.

But he doesn't need a damn bodyguard, or a babysitter. If he's going to be stuck on this godforsaken raft, the least Vance could do is leave him the hell alone. Sure, the op was rough, but all G needs to do is take those bad memories, stick them in the part of his brain where he keeps the rest of his bad memories, and shut the door. Done. On to the next assignment. He's been doing it his whole life, so there's no reason he can't do it now.

Except for the six-foot, heavily muscled shadow who follows him everywhere and who keeps watching him, like he's afraid G's going to crack and fling himself overboard.

Sure, Sam Hanna seems like a good guy. Smart, solid, brave as all hell, and one hundred percent dedicated to his mission. An all-American SEAL, and handsome to boot.

And yes, G appreciates the free ride out of prison. But that doesn't mean he needs a mother hen fussing over him.

Sam doesn't say much, but G gets the sense those patient brown eyes see right through his bullshit. G's not used to that. He's used to people only seeing what he wants them to see, if they notice him at all.

The truth is, he's far more comfortable being invisible. Life is just safer that way. After all, there are reasons why G Callen makes a lousy ordinary citizen but a superb undercover agent.

G's brooding is interrupted by a coughing fit, one that makes his chest hurt and leaves him breathless. Stupid pneumonia. He hates to admit it, but the voyage is forcing him to rest whether he likes it or not, so by the time he reaches LA he'll have kicked this damn bug. Probably another reason Vance sent him out here.

But the bodyguard/babysitter/mother hen situation – that has got to change.

G knows it's his oppositional defiance talking, but he doesn't even care. If Sam Hanna thinks he's G's new handler, he's got another think coming.

Starting right now, things are about to be very different.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days on the ship, and Sam's losing his mind.

He admits that a long ocean voyage isn't what he pictured when he took this assignment. He figured a plane flight across the Atlantic, another over the continental US, and he'd drop Callen off like a package. Door-to-door service direct from prison to Los Angeles, courtesy of Sam Hanna, glorified UPS man.

Turns out Vance had other ideas.

The ship makes sense, strategically. If indeed Callen needs to disappear off the radar, this is a better way to get him back to the States unseen and undetected.

It also makes sense to give Callen time to recover from his illness. The new office in Los Angeles is a major undertaking, with a lot of money on the line. Any agent assigned there better be ready to hit the ground running.

So, yeah, everything makes sense. But something about it sticks in his craw.

Part of it is pride, of course. Sam's gone from being a member of the most elite fighting force on the planet to a glorified babysitter. He gave the best years of his life to his country and to the Navy and he can't help feeling kicked to the curb.

He wonders sometimes if Callen feels the same way. To send a man into enemy territory and then strand him there goes against Sam's training as well as his natural instincts. Sure, NCIS sent Callen a rescue eventually, but to be welcomed back with nothing more than a bus ticket home has to sting.

Sam reminds himself again that spies are different from soldiers, and that he needs to start thinking more like a spy and less like a soldier if he's going to succeed in his new environment.

But the truth is, he'd rather face a crazed Afghani warlord then spend another day chasing after his wayward and infuriating charge.

Callen had been visibly furious when Vance informed him of their travel arrangements. He'd been visibly furious when they boarded the ship under cover of darkness. He'd been visibly furious when they'd been assigned their quarters, a tiny cabin with two berths set in the wall. For Sam, it seemed palatial. Callen took one look at the place, hurled his duffel at the wall, and stormed out.

Sam hadn't seen him again for 24 hours. If the ship hadn't already left port, he might have wondered if Callen had gone AWOL.

The next few days were similarly frustrating. Sam quickly learned that the Callen he had rescued and brought to Spain was not the typical Callen.

Rescued Callen stayed in one place and slept constantly. When awoken, he obediently took his antibiotics and painkillers, and then went back to sleep. Rescued Callen didn't speak, let alone argue.

Typical Callen doesn't sleep. Typical Callen doesn't stay in one place longer than twenty minutes.

Typical Callen disappears. Over the past three days, he'd explored the entire ship. If he sleeps at all, it's on his bedroll on deck or in one the many hiding places he discovered.

Typical Callen argues constantly, and when ordered to take his meds — Kyle had wisely entrusted them to Sam — flat out tells Sam to go fuck himself.

Sam puts his hands on his hips. "You have to finish the entire course."

Callen glares at him. "Why?"

"Because if you don't, the bacteria develop resistance to antibiotics. You're putting yourself and everybody else at risk."

Callen squints up at Sam. He's huddled on a threadbare deck chair. Despite the warm sunshine, he's dressed in khakis, boots, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt, and has his arms wrapped around himself like he's freezing cold. His hair, which was shaggy when Sam rescued him, has been shorn close, shorter than a buzz cut. Judging by several nicks and cuts on his scalp, Callen did it himself, and quickly — almost savagely.

"So let me get this straight," Callen says in that smart-ass way of his. "I'm fine, I don't need any medication, but if I don't take it, then the super-bugs will arise and take over the planet? And it will be all my fault?"

Sam sighs in exasperation. "Just take them, okay?" He holds out the pills and a bottle of water.

"Why?" Callen asks again. "So you can report in that I'm a good boy and took my vitamins?"

"I'm not reporting to anyone."

"Like hell," Callen says bitterly. "I've seen you go into the communications room."

"Yeah, I go there so I can email my kids," Sam snaps. "You got a problem with that?"

Callen actually looks abashed. "No."

"Then just take the God-damn meds," Sam orders. "And don't give me some crap about how you're better," he adds as Callen starts a hacking cough, "because if you were, you wouldn't still be doing that."

Callen finishes coughing and glares at Sam through watery eyes, but takes the meds from his hand and chugs them down with the water.

The conversation seems to break some sort of ice, because for the first time that night Callen is in the cabin when Sam retires. Although that could just be because it's raining outside. (Their cabin opens out onto a railed corridor with a roof overhead but nothing on the sides to keep out the wet.)

Either way, Callen's curled up in his berth while Sam does his nightly calisthenics.

"So how'd you get stuck with this crappy assignment?" Callen asks abruptly.

Sam is startled, but keeps doing crunches. "I didn't get stuck with it. I volunteered."

"Sure, you did," Callen drawls. "Just like I volunteered for my last job."

Sam stops his sit-ups and frowns at Callen. "I did volunteer."

"So did I," Callen says mildly. He adopts a deeper tone. "'G, we've got to expose the leak among our assets, and you're the only one who can pull this off. The lives of your co-workers are on the line, not to mention countless innocent civilians. But feel free to say no if you're too chicken to see it through.'"

Callen's voice changes to one more high-pitched, younger-sounding. "'Well, gosh, boss, now that you put it like that, I'd love to volunteer.'" His voice goes back to normal. "The volunteer part is somewhat moot at that point, see what I'm saying?"

It's the most words Callen has spoken since Sam met him.

Sam doesn't want to over-react, so he shrugs and starts doing crunches again. "Point taken."

Callen reaches up and traces the underside of the bunk above him. "But you're a SEAL. So seriously, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off saving the world?"

Sam leans his body to the right and does crunches to the side. "I'm retired."

"I didn't know you guys retired."

"Fucked up my knee parachuting into Afghanistan. It's good enough for field work, but not combat."

Callen stops tracing patterns. "I'm sorry, man."

Sam shrugs and switches sides. "It happens."

Callen watches him for a moment. "I can take the top bunk if—"

"I'm fine," Sam snaps.

"Okay, okay, don't bite my head off."

Sam stops and wipes his face on his T-shirt. "Sorry. It's just—"

"A sore spot. I get it." Callen flops on his back again. "So when you came and got me, that was..."

"My last mission. The other guys were trainees. They needed experience, and it was a pretty routine job. No offense."

"None taken."

"All I ever wanted was to be a SEAL," Sam finds himself saying. "Now that that's over, I don't know what my next move should be. This job came up, so I took it. Figured it would give me some time to get my head together."

"Makes sense," Callen admits. "Jesus, how many of those things do you do, anyway?" he adds as Sam resumes his sit-ups.

"Five hundred," Sam grunts.

"Makes my abs hurt just watching you."

He falls silent. Sam finishes the left side, then stretches to relax the muscles. "So, my turn."

"Your turn what?"

"I get to ask you a question."

There's a long silence. From his vantage point on the floor, Sam can't see Callen. But he can hear the tension in his voice when he answers.

"Fine. Ask away."

"What's the G stand for?" Sam had seen it stenciled on Callen's duffel.

Another long silence. "Nothing."

"Nothing starts with an N," Sam says mildly.

Callen flops over and stares down at Sam. His eyes are like chips of blue ice.

"Are you freaking kidding me?"

"What?" Sam asks. He's suddenly aware that he's lying flat on his back in nothing but shorts and a T-shirt, and that Callen is a trained killer with a very bad temper.

"Don't fuck with me," Callen growls.

"I'm not."

Callen, if anything, looks even more furious. "Yeah, you are. You know the answer — don't pretend you don't."

Sam spreads his hand wide in a conciliatory gesture. "I don't. It was an honest question, swear to God."

Callen looks down at him, eyes narrowed even further. "Liar," he spits out.

He swings out of the bunk and heads for the door. Sam's temper snaps. He's on his feet in a instant, reaching for Callen's arm. "Don't you dare call me a—"

Even as as his fingertips brush fabric, Callen is no longer there. The next thing Sam knows, he's slammed against the wall with one arm pinned behind his back and a gun pointed at his head.

"Sig Sauer P228," Callen breathes in Sam's ear. "Move, and I will pull the trigger."

"Okay, okay," Sam says. "Settle down. We're all good here."

He hears a click.

"Jesus." Sam closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the cool metal of the wall. "Okay, I won't move."

"Don't touch me," Callen whispers. "Don't you ever touch me."

"I won't," Sam says. "I promise. I'm sorry I did that. I didn't mean to startle you." He can feel Callen's body shaking, hear his harsh breathing. "I'm sorry," Sam says again.

He senses the pressure against his skull ease as the barrel of the gun moves back a fraction of an inch.

"I'm going out," Callen says. "Don't try to stop me."

"I won't, I swear."

"I can still shoot you."

"I know."

Sam feels the gun gradually pull away, hears the creak of the metal door, feels a breath of cool damp air on the back of his neck.

He knows it's coming, but he still jumps about a foot when the door slams.

He turns, grabs the handle, and wrenches the door open. But by the time he steps out into the cold, rainy darkness, Callen is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

They say old habits die hard.

One of G's oldest habits is going to ground when things get hairy.

It was one of the first things he did upon entering a new foster home: Find a few good hiding places, just in case.

It wasn't easy. Most of the homes were small and crowded, with little unused space. Closets were never a good idea because there were no escape routes. A garage worked, if a home had one. G was always small for his age, so it was easy to squeeze behind a pile of boxes or under a utility sink and go unnoticed. Attics and crawlspaces came in handy, too, although they were ungodly hot in the summer.

As he grew older, he roamed further afield. Parks, alleys, and abandoned buildings generally yielded good hiding places. He always kept a few essentials stashed there — food, water, weapons. Comics when he was younger (usually shoplifted). Safe in his hidey hole, he'd curl up and read, secretly pretending he was Robin from Batman. He figured he wasn't big enough to be the Caped Crusader, but he was agile and quick and not afraid of heights, so he qualified as sidekick material.

Of course, he quickly learned that trying to hold on to anything important was a bad idea. More than once, he was transferred to a new home with no warning and no time to go collect his stash. Or if he did have time to grab his comics, they were confiscated because he was accused of stealing them. (Which he had, technically, but G considered possession nine-tenths of the law.)

Then there was the time a few of the older boys discovered his stash. G found them the back yard of the home, reading his comics. He was furious and yelled at them.

The older kids laughed, and the tallest one — G's forgotten his name, but he clearly remembers his narrow, pointy face — held the comics up high, out of reach.

G kicked him in the nuts.

The kid went down like a tree. His friends beat the crap out of G, but it was worth it.

When it was all over, he dragged himself off the ground, spat blood, and declared that he didn't care — comics were for sissies, anyway. That earned him another punch in the face. Which was also worth it.

After that, he stopped hoarding anything but the bare essentials.

Needless to say, certain aspects of the spy trade were second nature to G. Safe houses. Secret caches of weapons and fake passports. Hiding in plain sight.

The first thing he did upon boarding the ship was to find several potential hiding places. Over the next few days, he stole blankets, MREs, and water and stashed them there. Just in case.

For the record, he doesn't object to sharing quarters with Hanna. On a ship this size, having a private cabin, even a double, is a luxury. He was expecting to bunk with the sailors, so this is actually a step up.

It's just that G doesn't sleep. And not sleeping is a whole lot easier without someone in the upper bunk who is sleeping. Or worse yet, spying on G and reporting back to Vance.

For some reason, people like Vance get really bent out of shape about the whole not-sleeping thing.

The night things get hairy, G backs slowly toward the cabin door.

"I'm going out," he tells Hanna. "Don't try to stop me."

"I won't, I swear."

"I can still shoot you," G warns.

"I know."

G shoves the Sig in the waistband of his khakis and slips out the door.

Their cabin opens directly onto the deck. There's a safety railing with a narrow metal roof overhead. The instant he's out the door, G jumps on the rail, grabs the edge of the roof, swings himself up, and lies flat.

A second later, Hanna bursts out the door. G lies as still as he can, heart pounding. He can hear Hanna pace both directions, looking for him.

Finally, Hanna lets out an impressive string of curses, stomps back into the cabin, and slams the door.

G lies perfectly still for five more minutes, just in case. Then he makes his way to his nearest hiding place.

The ship is equipped with old-fashioned lifeboats as part of its "Don't mind me, I'm just a harmless old freighter" disguise. They're a rather obvious hiding place, G feels, but by now he's soaking wet and just wants shelter. He might not be back up to his fighting weight yet, but he's got the Sig if anyone finds him and decides to mess with him.

The lifeboat is covered with a tarp that G has loosened a little on one side. He slips easily under the tarp and into the belly of the boat. He wishes he had a flashlight, but decides it's better this way — a light would be too risky. He wraps himself in the wool blanket he stashed earlier and curls up with his back against the gentle curve of the boat. He's still freezing cold, especially his feet, which he's just now realizing are bare. But the rain on the tarp overhead makes a soothing patter, and G can feel his heartbeat and breathing slow in response.

Still, it takes an hour for him to stop shaking.

He's not angry at Hanna. He's angry at himself, for losing control like that. For a split second, raw instinct took over, and that's never a good thing. What if he flipped out like that on an op?

Of course, G reminds himself, he never would lose it like that on the job. On the job, he's one hundred percent in control at all times. His brain and body go into a state of extreme focus where he can see three moves ahead, where nothing catches him off guard. Consequently, he's always in charge of what's happening, even when it seems like he's defeated.

Hell, those idiots at the prison thought they were interrogating him. Truth is, he was interrogating them. Doling out the information in tiny little morsels, keeping them coming back for more; meanwhile, listening and cataloguing every word they spoke, every action they took. Then, when he was good and ready, he broke — sending them off on a trail that would ultimately lead to their destruction. And by the time they realized they had been manipulated, G Callen had vanished into the night, forever.

Just like the Caped Crusader.

G smiles at the thought and wraps the blanket closer around him. He knows he won't sleep, but he can still rest. That's what everyone doesn't get — a person doesn't need to actually sleep in order to rest and refuel. He just needs to hold his body still and turn down the volume in his brain until the numbness sets in.

As it does, G's mind registers one last pesky thought. Come morning, he's going to have to do some serious damage control with Hanna.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam figures he has three options.

Option One: Kill Callen.

Option Two: Have the crew drop Sam off at the next port. There he can phone Vance, tell him to take this job and shove it, and begin a new career as a mall cop.

Option Three: Something that doesn't involve Options One or Two.

He's still trying to figure out Option Three while he processes his own emotions. After Callen disappears into the night like friggin' Batman, it takes Sam six hours to go from white-hot rage to blistering fury, and another six to go from blistering fury to simmering resentment.

From there it's a quick, three-hour trip to genuine concern, and by late afternoon, he finally arrives at full-blown panic.

Sam's no idiot. He knows genuine PTSD when he sees it. And he knows where it can lead.

He searches the ship, as much as he can in the driving rain. He tries not to think about the possibility that Callen may have already ended it with a bullet. He considers raising the general alarm but decides against it. If Callen is still alive, the last thing Sam wants to do is make him feel cornered.

Sam also considers, but decides against, contacting NCIS. He's not sure why he feels so reluctant. Callen already seems to assume that Sam is spying on him and reporting back to Vance. Maybe Sam doesn't want to prove him right. Then again, if Callen is a serious danger to himself or others...

"Son of a bitch," Sam mutters. He stands at the edge of the deck, carefully holding on to the rail, and looks down into the churning waters while he thinks.

Sam figures three things have kept him alive all these years: Teamwork, Training, and Instincts. (Some people might add luck, but Sam doesn't believe in it. If you've got the first three, you don't need luck.) He goes through the list in his mind, bringing each tool to bear on his current dilemma.

Teamwork: Not relevant under the present circumstances. For the first time in his life, Sam doesn't have a team to rely on, and the loss still hurts like a physical injury, like he's missing a limb.

Training: Relevant. His training tells him he's in over his head. When that happens, it's usually due to lack of intel and/or situation-specific training. In this situation, Sam clearly doesn't have all the information or expertise he needs. The smart thing to do would be to contact his superiors — in this case, Vance — and demand to be read in. Then maybe check into an online program and get a degree in clinical psychology.

Instincts: Always relevant. Unfortunately, his instincts are telling him strongly not to contact Vance.

Again, Sam's not sure why. It could be the betrayal thing. Or perhaps he's reluctant to rat Callen out. A lot of guys have managed to overcome PTSD and go back to work. Maybe Callen, like Sam, just needs a chance to get his head together. If Sam pulls the trigger now, he might nix Callen's chances at the new job.

Then again, if he doesn't, Callen might end up dead and he might decide to take some other folks — namely Sam — with him.

And why is he even worrying about the hurt feelings and career prospects of a guy who held a gun to his head? Sam asks himself furiously.

"Idiot," he mutters.

He gives Instinct a hard mental shove, but it refuses to go away. As a matter of fact, it shoves back. Harder.

Sam gives in. In this case, where he lacks proper Teamwork and Training, Instinct wins the day.

And Instinct is telling him to give Callen another shot — only not literally.

Now if he could only find the son of a bitch...

Sam straightens and wipes the rain from his face. His mind is made up. He'll give Callen six more hours. If he hasn't surfaced by then, Sam will alert the crew, contact Vance, and generally throw in the towel.

Satisfied, Sam heads back to the cabin. His plan is to change into dry clothes and then rustle up some coffee. He ducks a particularly nasty spume of spitting spray and slips into the cabin...

...only to find Callen, seated cross-legged on the floor with his back against the far wall. He's got the Sig disassembled and spread out on the floor, and he's cleaning it meticulously, his movements neat and precise.

Sam stops in his tracks and stares at him. Callen glances up and frowns.

"Rain's gettin' in."

Sam realizes he's right, and shuts the door.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Callen shrugs and continues to clean his gun. "Around."

"Around?" Sam is quite pleased that his voice sounds so calm and controlled, when what he really wants to do is bellow. "I thought you were dead."

Callen stops and squints up at him, surprised. "Why?"

"Why?" Now Sam's voice starts to rise. "WHY?"

To his credit, Callen looks abashed. "Oh. That."

"Yes, that," Sam says. "Let's talk about that."

Callen fiddles with his cleaning tools for a moment. "I guess I owe you an apology."

Sam crosses his arms. "You guess?"

Callen actually blushes. "It's just...I thought...I get...I wouldn't have shot you, you know," he says defensively.

"No, I don't know that," Sam snaps. "All I know is some maniac put a freaking P228 to my head and threatened to pull the trigger. Where the hell did you get that thing, anyway?" he adds. "SEALS use those, not civilians. And don't tell me it's what you carry as an agent, 'cause that thing is way too obvious for the field."

Callen grins up at him, cocky again. "I know a guy."

"Jesus." Suddenly, Sam is exhausted. He didn't sleep a wink, and now that relief is setting in, he's starting to feel it. He sits down in the only chair in the room and rubs his head and face with his hands.

When he looks up again, Callen is studying him with curiosity.

"You really were worried," he says.

"Of course I was worried!" Sam hears his voice rise again, but tamps it down and starts over.

"Look," he says, "you're a grown man. As you've pointed out more than once, you don't need a babysitter or a bodyguard. But for some reason, your boss hired me to get you to LA. Do you know what that means?"

Callen stares at him in obvious confusion. "No."

"It means I've got your back," Sam says gently. "It means, for right now, I'm your partner."

Callen frowns. "I don't do partnerships."

"I'm not surprised to hear it," Sam says, "but for the next three weeks, you've got one. That means I watch your back and you watch mine, okay? Now, about last night—"

Callen interrupts. "I wouldn't have shot you."

"I'll take your word for it. What I was going to say was, I shouldn't have startled you like that."

Callen looks down. "I overreacted."

"Yeah, you did," Sam says evenly. "But the way I see it, you just got out of combat. You're entitled to a little combat stress. I've been through it myself," he adds. "When I was on leave from my first tour in Afghanistan, I was sitting at the kitchen table, just eating a bowl of cereal. Normal Saturday morning, the type of thing I'd daydreamed about for a year. My kid slammed the back door, and I about went through the roof."

"Yeah?" Callen goes back to cleaning his gun, but Sam can tell he's listening.

"Yeah. We all get a little jumpy. So why don't we make a deal? I won't sneak up on you, and you don't disappear for days at a time. That way I don't have to worry that you offed yourself."

Callen grins suddenly. "Bet that would look pretty bad on your report to Vance, huh?"

"Okay, that's another thing," Sam says sternly. "I don't know where you got this idea that I'm spying on you, but I'm not."

Callen replaces the clip in the Sig. "Yeah, right."

"I'm serious," Sam says.

"Uh-huh." Callen finishes reassembling the gun, sights down the barrel, and nods with satisfaction. Then he offers it to Sam formally, across his wrist. "Your turn."

Mystified, Sam takes the gun, feeling its familiar heft in his palm. "My turn what?"

"Your turn." Callen nods at the pistol, then taps his forehead.

"Hang on a second," Sam says. "You want me to hold a gun to your head?"

"Yeah," Callen says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Why?"

Callen looks up at Sam with the solemnity of an eight-year-old enacting a pinky-swear. "Because then we'll be even."

"Jesus Christ." Sam rubs his eyes with his hands, praying for patience. When he looks up, Callen is looking at him, head cocked in curiosity.

"For the record," Sam says. "I am not going to point a gun at your head."

Callen shrugs like's it's no biggie. "Okay. Do you want a free hit?" he offers. "I won't flinch."

Sam's brain reels. He clenches his fists in frustration. "You have got to be the most fucked-up individual I have ever met," he tells Callen. "What the hell is your problem?"

Callen frowns. "You should know. It's all in my files."

Sam stands. "For the last time—"

He stops, realizing he's waving a loaded Sig Sauer around. "Let's just put this thing away, all right?"

He hands the Sig to Callen, who shrugs, ejects the clip, and stows both in his duffel. Sam sits again and presses his hands together for emphasis.

"Now. For the last time. I did not read any files on you. I am not spying on you. I am not reporting back to NCIS, or Vance, or anyone."

Callen folds his arms, and his face gets that stubborn look.

"Look at me."

Callen reluctantly meets Sam's eyes.

"You want to know what they told me about you?" Sam ticks off the items on his fingers. "American agent. Name: Callen. Handler's name: Gibbs. Currently imprisoned, needs a ride out. That's all I know. As a SEAL, that's all I need to know. Someone's in trouble, I go get them out. That's what I do."

"You're not a SEAL anymore," Callen mutters.

"Once a SEAL, always a SEAL," Sam growls. "Aside from that, nobody told me a damn thing about you."

"What about Vance?" Callen asks suspiciously.

"Nothing," Sam insists. "He knew I needed a job, and for some reason, he thought you needed someone to watch your back. That's why I'm here. That's all I know."

For a second, Callen looks uncertain. Then he pulls his arms tighter around himself. If possible, his face gets even more mulish.

"I don't believe you."

"Fine," Sam snaps. He stands. "It doesn't matter if you believe it or not. It's the truth. Now, I just spent the entire day looking for your skinny white ass. I'm tired, I'm wet, and I want some damn coffee."

He stalks to the door, then pauses, getting his temper under control. He takes a deep breath and turns around. "Can I get you anything? Because, frankly, you look like crap." Now that his emotions are settling down, he notices that Callen looks exhausted, too. His face is unshaven, his eyes are hollow, and he's shivering. He suddenly reminds Sam of the Callen he rescued.

But this Callen won't meet his eyes.

"Have it your way," Sam snaps again. He opens the door.

"Tea."

Sam turns, not sure he heard anything. "What was that?"

Callen looks everywhere but at him. "Cup of tea would be nice."

"Are you hungry?"

Callen frowns, like the question doesn't make any sense. "I could eat," he says finally.

"Then get up off your butt and come with me."

Callen blinks at Sam, then looks at his duffel.

"Fine, bring your damn gun. Just don't shoot anyone on my watch, because I am not in the mood."

* * *

><p>Callen puts away a bowl of soup, some bread and several cups of tea. He sits with his hands wrapped around the mug, not speaking. Sam doesn't initiate any conversation, either, just drinks his coffee. If he didn't know better, he might have thought he and Callen had achieved some kind of détente.<p>

That night, Callen is in the lower bunk when Sam returns from the communications room.

"How are the kids?" he asks.

Sam blinks in surprise. "Growing like weeds," he says finally. "They sent a picture of themselves by the kitchen wall. You know," he adds, "where we draw pencil marks to show how tall they are?"

"I guess."

"They've both shot up an inch." Sam holds out the photo, printed on a piece of paper. Callen takes it and studies it. The kids are grinning proudly, each with a ruler balanced on their head.

"That's Trent," Sam says, pointing to the boy. "He's my little man. And that's Tanya, she's my baby girl."

"Cute," Callen says. "Bet she's got you wrapped around her little finger."

Sam snorts. "You know it. She just lost that tooth." He taps the paper at Tanya's gap-toothed grin. "She wants to know how much she's gonna get from the tooth fairy. I told her I'd get in touch with him and we'd negotiate."

"Smart move." Callen hands the paper back. "When are you going to see them?'

"Soon, I hope," Sam says. "Maybe when we get to California, if their mother agrees to bring them out. They live in Ohio," he explains. "Closer to the grandparents who, trust me, do not want to share." He carefully sets the photo aside, then gets undressed.

After a moment, Callen speaks again. "Why—" He breaks off.

Sam looks at him. "Why, what?"

Callen shakes his head. "Never mind. It's none of my business."

"No, go ahead. Ask."

Callen traces invisible patterns on the underside of the bunk. "Why wouldn't their mom want them to see you?"

"We're divorced. Things can get a little hairy between us."

"Oh. Sorry."

Sam shrugs. "It happens. Especially in military families."

He's about to climb into the top bunk when Callen looks at him in surprise. "Aren't you going to do your...?" He waves his hand vaguely at the floor.

"Uh, yeah. I guess." Sam lies down on the floor and starts his sit-ups, arms behind his head first and then folded across his chest.

At about two hundred, Callen speaks again. "Your ex should let your kids see you."

"I'll give you her number," Sam grunts. "You can call and tell her that."

"I'm serious," Callen says. "It's important."

Sam switches to the left side. "She thinks military life is too disruptive for children. She says they do better with consistency. Having me appear and then disappear all the time..." he shrugs. "She just couldn't handle it."

"But didn't she know you were in the Navy when she married you?" Callen sounds indignant.

Sam switches to the right side. "I guess she liked the look of me in my dress whites. And I liked the look of her. Plus, I was young and stupid and wanted a family. And, of course, I thought I was invincible." He shrugs again. "It happens. Some folks like the idea of being a Navy spouse, but find out they can't handle the reality."

"But shouldn't she be thinking about what the kids want and can handle, not what she wants and can handle?" Callen persists.

Sam laughs. "You should have been my divorce attorney." He reaches five hundred and lies down on the floor, stretching his torso muscles. Then he stretches his knee, which is sore from all the climbing around he did today, searching for Callen.

He's tired and suddenly the top bunk seems miles away. The room is dark except for a reading light above the lower bunk, and the ship's rocking motion is gentle and soothing. Sam's eyelids are fluttering closed when Callen speaks again, startling him.

"I don't know what the G stands for."

Sam opens his eyes. "Sorry, what?"

There's a pause, then Callen speaks again. "My first name. I don't know what the G stands for."

Sam holds very still. "Why not?"

"I grew up in the system. My paperwork just said G Callen."

"Oh."

"I bounced around a lot. They said I was tough to place. Either they lost track of what the G stood for, or they never knew. Or maybe they did, but they never told me." Callen's voice is casual, offhand, but Sam can hear the edge in it.

"I see."

"It's all in my files, but I guess if you never read them, you wouldn't know." Callen rolls over and looks down at Sam. "You can call me G. If you want," he adds.

Sam is struck breathless yet again by how blue this man's eyes are. He's also suddenly and sharply aware of how close their bodies are, how they're both prone, how their breathing seems to be in sync. Somehow he manages to speak casually.

"Okay. You can call me Sam."

"Sam." G mouths the word. "Okay." He pulls back suddenly, disappearing from view. "Good night." He turns off the light above his bunk, plunging the cabin into darkness.

Sam climbs into the top bunk, but it takes him a long time to fall asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

G regrets it, of course. And the regret eats at him over the next few days.

G never tells anyone about his past, ever. When someone asks him what the G stands for, his usual response is A) "George," or B) "None of your fucking business," depending on his mood.

G learned the hard way never to talk about his childhood. Once he does, people look at him differently. They try not to, but G can still see the pity in their eyes.

Gibbs knew, of course, because he had to vet G before he hired him and that meant reading his files. (For some reason G can't figure out, the shrinks seem to think his past is relevant to his ability to do his job.) But they never talked about it. Gibbs had his own shitty past to deal with, and both of them preferred to focus on getting the job done.

There's an additional complication, as well. G respected Gibbs, considered him a good boss, maybe even a mentor, and on a really, really good day, maybe even a friend.

But he never wanted to climb Gibbs' body like a jungle gym. Or beg him to take him as hard as he can.

G wants to do both those things to Sam Hanna, plus a hell of a lot more.

G doesn't like labels. He doesn't like being labeled ADD or OCD or PTSD, nor does he like being labeled gay or straight or bi. Labels go along too closely with the whole normal relationships thing, and if G Callen doesn't do partnerships, he sure as hell doesn't do normal relationships. Never has, never will. He can fake it for an op, of course, but that's different. That's work.

Anyway, G doesn't bother labeling his sexuality. He figures he knows what he likes when he sees it. If the other person likes the look of him, great. If not, no harm, no foul. And any sexual encounter he has is strictly a one-time deal.

So a schoolgirl crush on Sam Hanna? That's the last thing he needs.

G sighs and wraps his hoodie closer around himself. He's in his deck chair that he scrounged and set in a little alcove between two enormous crates, looking out at the open water. It's safe from the wind, so he almost, if not quite, feels warm. It also gives him a safe place to sit and brood and talk himself out of these stupid feelings.

Sam has, in his genial way, gotten to know all the personnel on the ship. Everyone respects the hell out of him, of course, and the young guys worship the ground he walks on. Sam engages in all sorts of friendly competitions with them — arm wrestling, weight-lifting, knife throwing. He always wins, of course, but the young guys don't care — they love pushing themselves past their limits, just to earn an encouraging smile from Sam, or a proud pat on the back. They're like a bunch of puppies competing for the attention of the alpha.

That's where Sam is now — on the main deck, organizing some sort of push-up contest. G never participates in the competitions, but he hangs out when they're happening so he can secretly watch Sam.

Today, however, he's banished himself to his hiding place. To punish himself for wanting what he can never have, and wanting it so damn much it hurts.

Because Sam's not just muscle, although the muscles he has are freaking fantastic. He's a natural born leader, as honest as the day is long, and — well, G may be cynical, but even he can admit there are a few kind and decent people in the world. Sam Hanna is one of those few. He's kind and decent, and from the very first instant G laid eyes on him, Sam has made him feel safe in a way he has never felt safe in his entire existence. (Or at least the part of his existence that he can remember.) Despite his better judgement, G believes Sam when he says he's not spying on him.

Because Sam is a good man. It shows in every single thing he does.

But again, there's even more to him than that. He's also smart as hell, as evidenced by the fact that he's voracious reader. The captain has a small library of books in a variety of languages. Sam started at one end and is methodically working his way through it. He reads one book at a time, starting at the beginning and reading all the way through to the end, never skipping the boring parts like G does. He finished a book of New York Times crossword puzzles the same way, beginning to end, not giving up when the clues get hard and never ever checking the answers in the back of the book. When he was done, he politely erased all his answers and lent the book to G.

G takes longer than he needs to filling it out, just so he can pretend to get stuck on the hard puzzles and ask Sam for help. Which is pretty much the most pathetic, schoolgirl-ish thing he's ever done. (Apparently the young sailors aren't the only ones desperate for Sam's attention.)

The truth is, G has never felt anything like this in his entire life. He's never been this scared of anything, either, and he's never hated himself quite so much.

Because Sam Hanna has got to be the straightest arrow G's ever met. He's a badass SEAL, for one thing, and for another, he's a decent, normal guy with a decent, normal life. He's got kids, for Christ's sake.

G's sure Sam has no clue how he feels. G's used to hiding things — he is an undercover agent, after all. And he's taken the extra precaution of being a total asshole as often as possible, just to cover his tracks.

But if Sam had any idea G was interested in him...

G closes the eyes, imagining the possibilities. The military is full of men who wouldn't hesitate to beat the crap out of someone, or kill him, just for looking at them the wrong way. Sam doesn't seem like that kind of man — he's far too secure in his own identity — but you never know. G would definitely prefer a physical beating to what would be more likely to happen: Sam would look at him differently, maybe even with pity. As a matter of fact, he's such a kind, decent guy that he'd probably try to let G down easy, which would be even more humiliating.

And even if, by some miracle, Sam was bi, or by an even greater miracle, was actually attracted to him...well, G Callen pretty much defines the phrase 'damaged goods.'

The sharp-faced officer emerges, biting G's neck and clutching painfully at his hair, yanking his head back.

G firmly shoves the man back in his mental Bad Memories Closet and bolts the door, then runs his hand over his scalp to remind himself that his hair is short now and no one can grab him like that again. He pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt for good measure and tucks his hands in his sleeves. It may be a beautiful, sunny day at sea, but to G it feels as cold a meat locker.

The problem is being on this ship, G decides.

He figures he has two basic emotional states: Okay and Not Okay. When G feels Not Okay, he leaves. Disappears. End of story. Gets a new apartment, a new cover story, a new assignment, and moves on.

But there's no way off this damn boat. Not only is he stuck here, day after day, he's stuck here in close proximity to Sam, which is agony.

At the same time, he never wants it to end. If this is agony, it's the sweetest agony he's ever known.

Which brings him back to imagining what Sam is like in the sack, with those strong hands and those beautiful lips and God, that powerful body. What would it be like to make a man with such tight control lose it? An even more thrilling yet terrifying thought — what would it be like to be in bed with someone so tender? Because there's no doubt in G's mind that making love to Sam Hanna is like a freaking Barry White song.

G growls in frustration and considers throwing himself overboard. He's a grown man, but right now he needs a cold shower like a horny teenager.

Fortunately, this is a Navy ship, which means the only kind of shower available is the cold kind.

G stands and heads to the main deck. He's going to take the coldest shower he can stand and if that doesn't work, beat himself over the head with a brick. Anything to stop this insanity.

But despite his determination, he can't help linger for a moment, watching Sam.

The sailors are moving on to the next competition. One of them jumps up and grabs a block-and-tackle that dangles from the end of a long rope. It's hooked to a section of rail stretching horizontally, parallel to the deck. The entire unit is used for loading the cargo hold when it's open.

The sailor unhooks the block-and-tackle, scrambles up a nearby ladder, and slings it over a step, out of the way. The others set up a few crates as steps, then divide into teams, good-naturedly pushing and shoving. Sam holds up his hand for stillness, and they quiet instantly, watching him. The first man at the head of each line steps up on the crates.

Sam holds up a stopwatch and clicks it, at the same time sweeping his arm down. The first two men leap for the horizontal rail and begin doing chin-ups. As they complete thirty, they let go, land on the crates, and scramble out of the way as the next two men leap up for their turn. Sam grins as the sailors holler encouragement to their teammates. Several others watch, leaning against the main rail of the ship. One of them perches there, legs hooked securely on either side.

A glint of light catches G's eye, and he turns to see what it is. It's a clear day, and the ship is making good speed. But there's a brisk wind, which means the ship is pitching as she moves. The motion of the ship is affecting the block-and-tackle unit slung over the high ladder.

G realizes what's about to happen a second before it does. As the block-and-tackle detaches and begins to swing toward the deck, he's already in motion.

Knowing Sam's size, he deliberately tackles him low, taking him down. Even as they fall, he feels the breath of air on the back of his neck as the heavy metal hook swings inches above them.

G's got his head turned toward the rail, so he sees what happens next. The hook, gaining momentum, strikes the man sitting on the rail, catching him on the forehead and knocking him overboard.

As the man falls towards the water, G scrambles to his feet and dives in after him.

Hitting the water feels like falling on a block of ice, it's that cold and solid. For a moment, G's stunned by the impact and goes under, into the blackness. Then instinct kicks in, and he fights his way to the surface. He treads water, shedding his boots and sweatshirt as fast as he can.

Without the extra weight, he feels a little more buoyant. Still, the sea is rough, the waves smacking G's body back and forth like giant hands. He swallows sea water and chokes. He has no idea what direction the ship is. All he can see is blue.

Somehow he catches a glimpse of the man in the water and swims toward him, pulling him upward just as he starts to sink. The man's eyes are closed, and there's blood running from his forehead. He's dead weight in G's arms.

There's a larger splash next to G as something large and white hits the water. He realizes it's a life buoy and reaches for it desperately. He manages to get one arm hooked through it, and uses his other arm and body to support the sailor, trying to keep his head above water. He only prays he can hang on long enough for the crew (Sam) to rescue them. He can feel the powerful current of the ship's engine dragging them toward the stern. If he lets go, they'll both be chopped to chum by the enormous blades. Provided we don't drown first, he thinks, as more waves slop over his head. His arms are already feeling the strain, and he knows he won't be able to hold the man above water for much longer.

G beats back panic and tries to relax. His body floats, arching toward the surface, where he gulps a mouthful of air. As he does, he sees a dark red line in the water and realizes it's the blood flowing from the sailor's forehead.

Then he spots the fins circling.

That's when he decides that this was a really bad idea.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam Hanna is, by nature as well as training, a problem solver.

He enjoys solving problems. He enjoys the whole process – studying the problem, coming up with the most effective solution, implementing the solution. Setting things right.

American agent needs rescue? Sam Hanna to the rescue.

Problem solved.

But Sam has learned through bitter experience that there are some problems that can't be solved, some things that can't be fixed, no matter how hard he tries. His failed marriage is one of them.

He's hoping his current predicament isn't another.

Instead, he tries to view it as a puzzle that needs to be solved. Each piece of information he can glean is another clue to unraveling the enigma that is G Callen.

It's not easy spying on a man who spies for a living, but over the next few days Sam gives it his best shot.

As he observes, he lists the clues in his mind, arranging and re-arranging them, twisting them like a Rubik's Cube, trying to make all the pieces fit together.

For starters, there seem to be innumerable versions of Callen.

There's Rescued Callen, who grabbed Sam's heart and won't let go.

Typical Callen — hard-nosed, cocky, brusque to the point of rudeness, and wildly unpredictable.

The elusive but friendly G, who so far has emerged once only to disappear the next morning as if he had never existed.

And then there's Agent Callen.

Sam is beginning to understand why Agent Callen is so effective in the field, due to his unique ability to vanish in plain sight. To wit: Agent Callen has average height, average weight, average build, average features, average carriage, average speech patterns, average intelligence. He's so quiet and bland and unassuming, so little apt to register on most people's radars that he disappears into the woodwork, leaving at most a vague recollection of his presence. It's the perfect disguise for a spy.

And that's precisely the way Callen likes it. He prefers to be invisible, to pass through the world watching everyone else like a hawk but remaining unseen.

But for the life of him, Sam cannot figure out why most people fall for it. Are they blind, he wonders, or just idiots?

Because there is nothing average about Callen.

For starters, he's gorgeous. Sam doesn't consider himself a shallow person, but when he glimpses those baby blue eyes, he literally cannot think straight. Likewise, those clever hands, that expressive mouth. Just the way Callen moves draws Sam's eyes. He's like a cat (and just as lethal): All graceful, wiry strength with no wasted motion, plus a precise and deadly focus. And, cat-like, he can turn on the charm in a heartbeat. When this happens, the other person ends up doing precisely what Callen wants, all the while thinking it was their own idea. (For example, Callen charmed the crusty old sea dog of a cook into letting him takes his meals separately rather than with the rest of the crew. To this day, Sam has no idea how Callen managed that.)

Nor does Callen possess average intelligence. The captain has a small library of books, in a variety of languages, which he graciously offered to share with Sam. Sam passes the books to Callen when he's done, which is how he found out he's fluent in several languages, including Russian. Callen reads quickly, skimming the pages rather than methodically plowing through like Sam. He finishes Sam's book of crosswords in record time, although Sam suspects he takes longer than he needs to, just to avoid calling attention to himself.

And then there's Callen's chameleon-like ability to become a completely different person. Even in his limited interactions with the crew, Sam can observe his techniques. Sometimes he transforms into the mirror image of the person he's talking to, subtly mimicking their gestures, expressions, even their breathing patterns, in order to set them at their ease. Other times he can become what the other person wants, or fears, the most. (Despite his low profile, a few of the crewmembers sense Callen's dangerous and respond agressively. Most of them outweigh Callen by at least thirty pounds, but one look from him is enough to send them scuttling away with their tail between their legs.) Sam figures Callen must be a genius at working an asset, manipulating or terrifying them into revealing far more than they ever intended.

It's disturbing, though, Callen's ability to vanish into another persona. One time he and the cook are playing chess in the galley when Sam stops by for coffee. Callen waves the cook back in his seat and goes to fetch it, shrugging off Sam's offer to get it himself.

As Callen fills the cup from the urn, Sam notices that, for once, his sleeves are rolled up. A livid scar runs the entire length of the underside of his forearm, from wrist to elbow.

"Where'd you get that?" Sam asks as he accepts the cup. He can tell Callen isn't pleased that Sam noticed, but he answers casually as he pours two cups of hot water.

"Knife fight, Venice Beach."

"You were on a mission in Venice Beach?"

Callen grins and drops tea bags in the cups. "Nah, this one's real."

Sam stops with his cup halfway to his mouth. "So...if something like that happened on a mission..."

"Op," Callen scolds.

"If it happens on an op, then it's not real?"

Callen dunks the tea bags up and down in the water. "Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because when I'm on an op, I'm someone else," Callen replies, like it's obvious. "If something happens, it happens to someone else, not to me."

"I see," Sam says. "So then you don't have to deal with it?"

"Nope." G throws away the tea bags and catches sight of Sam's expression. "Don't knock it 'til you try it," he snarls, then marches back to the small table by the porthole. He hands the cup of tea to the cook and sits. The two of them wrap their hands around the warm cups and hunch over the chessboard, glowering at the pieces with matching scowls.

As for the Callen known simply as G, he hasn't reappeared, which is disappointing but not surprising. Sam could easily read between the lines of G's story to see the lifetime of abandonment and rejection behind it. And he can recognize the pattern at work now: G is afraid if he allows himself to open up to Sam, he'll walk away like everyone else. It's safer to push him away first. At least then G will have the upper hand.

Only thing is, Sam's not going anywhere. Because no matter how he twists the pieces and rearranges the clues, he keeps coming up with the same answer.

He's in love.

Somehow, when he wasn't looking, Sam fell head over heels for the man he rescued.

Sam tells himself it's all kinds of wrong. For one thing, Sam may not be a babysitter or a bodyguard but the fact remains that Callen is his responsibility. To engage in a relationship with his charge would be unethical. Besides, they're partners, of a sort, and everyone knows it's a bad idea to get involved with someone you work with. Not to mention, Callen may insist that he's fine, but the truth is he's recovering from a major trauma. (Sam's no innocent. He's trained in interrogation techniques, and he's used them. There's no doubt in his mind that what G's captors did to him went far beyond the Geneva Convention.) And this is a guy who, to begin with, probably had more issues than Time magazine. To take advantage of his current vulnerability would be unthinkable.

Of course, Sam reminds himself, this is all assuming that G would be even be interested in him. He has no idea what the other man's sexuality is. He suspects it's whatever G he needs it to be for the job at hand. Another weapon in his arsenal, another way to manipulate people. And even if, by some miracle, G is attracted to Sam, the guy has one-night-stand written all over him.

Somehow, Sam doesn't think his heart can take that.

So, instead, he forces himself to keep busy. For Sam, the best way to work through a problem is physical. Something about working up a sweat helps clarify his mind. Plus, he's always enjoyed the training aspects of his job, and he's found he's good at bringing out the best in other people.

So, with the captain's permission, he puts the young guys through their paces, challenging them to be the best that they can be. He rewards them with stories of being a SEAL, carefully edited of course. There's no way to explain the hell of war, especially to young men who think it's all a game. They'll learn soon enough, he figures, just like he did.

Sam reminds himself that being on this ship is halcyon time. As soon as they arrive in the U.S, this job will be over and Callen will no doubt disappear on his next assignment, never to be heard from again, and Sam will have to figure out what to do with the rest of his life.

Sam may be a lovestruck idiot, but he's no fool. Even though there's no shipboard romance in the cards, he can still enjoy his time at sea. Still enjoy watching G from afar, puzzling over his many facets and his many moods, even if they do drive him crazy.

If this is agony, it's the sweetest agony he's ever known.

And then the freaking idiot actually goes and throws himself overboard.


	9. Chapter 9

G Callen doesn't do regrets. His scorched-earth approach to life doesn't allow for them.

But right now, as the water slops over his chin and the strength ebbs from his limbs, he feels a genuine sense of what can only be described as regret.

Regret that he didn't tell Sam how he felt.

Even now, imagining himself confessing his deepest longings feels so out of his comfort zone that G amends his regret.

He regrets that he didn't grab Sam and kiss the daylights out of him.

It would have been worth the punch in the face, or the kindly rejection, just for that one glorious moment.

And now G's convinced he's hallucinating, because he swears he can see Sam descending down the side of the ship like...well, like Batman.

Then suddenly Sam is right there, treading water and glaring at him. "Didn't anyone ever tell you to look before you leap?"

"Once or twice," G sputters.

But Sam's not really listening. He's fastening the rescue harness around the injured sailor. "How is he?"

"Unconscious, but he's alive," G responds. Sam's brisk tone immediately snaps him from blind terror into ops-mode.

Sam finishes securing the harness, pillowing the sailor's head gently against his chest. The sudden release of weight gives G strength, and he manages to get the buoy around him. He wants to weep with gratitude for the relief to his muscles.

"I'll be right back," Sam says. "Don't go anywhere."

"Really?" G's quite proud of his smart-ass tone, despite the fact that his teeth are chattering. "Because I thought I might swim to C-c-c-c-cuba and assassinate C-c-c-c-castro."

Sam looks at him, dark eyes intense. "I mean it. I'll come back for you."

G feels a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold water. He gives a nod that he hopes conveys what he's feeling.

Sam gives two strong tugs on the cable. As he does, a fin cruises past his shoulder.

G gives a shout of warning that comes out more like a bleat of terror. Sam looks at him, and G points.

Sam glances at the circling fins. "They're just babies."

"Babies?" G hears his voice break again.

"They're just curious. They won't hurt you." To G's horror, the cable retracts, pulling Sam and the sailor upward. "Relax."

"Give me your knife," G calls up at him. He'd lost the Sig on impact, and he's pretty sure his ankle holster went the way of his boots, taking his knife with it. He's not wearing a wrist blade, so that just leaves his garrote, and what good is that against a circling pod of Great Whites?

"If they get too close, just bop them on the nose," Sam calls back as he ascends.

"Bop them on the nose?" G's voice raises in outrage. "Are you crazy?" But Sam is gone, leaving him to face the hungry horde alone.

"Bop them on the nose," G mutters to himself. "Just bop them on the nose." He reassures himself that the sharks were attracted to the blood from the sailor's injury. Now that he's gone, they'll lose interest.

Only there's still blood in the water and probably on G's clothes and they can still smell it, if sharks can even smell. He tries to remember if they can - to his growing list of regrets, he adds not paying attention in science class - then tries to remember the differences between Atlantic sharks such as these and the Pacific kind he's seen in LA. But it seems all he can picture are a bunch of one-armed surfers, and all he can hear is Robert Shaw intoning, "Eleven hundred men went into the water, three hundred come out...the shark took the rest."

Sharks really do have doll eyes, G thinks numbly as one slides by, turning its body to reveal the black orbs. It turns again, circling, and G realizes it's about to charge. He clenches his fist, which suddenly seems very tiny, and pulls back his arm.

He'll only get one shot at this, he thinks as the shark begins to move toward him, water curling in its wake. Just one punch, and he'll have to time it exactly right. Too soon, and he'll miss. Too late, and...God help him.

"Wait for it," G tells himself, wishing desperately that his body wasn't shaking so hard. The shark is six feet away.

Then three.

"Wait for it..."

G can see the eyes now. It's almost on top of him. He pulls back his arm and—

From out of nowhere, a hefty fist thumps the shark squarely in the nose. It thrashes in annoyance, then swims away.

"Told you they wouldn't bother you," says Sam's voice in his ear.

"Jesus," G whimpers. "What t-t-t-t-took you so long?"

"Got here as soon as I could," Sam says apologetically but calmly, like he got caught in traffic. He secures the rescue harness around G.

"Put your arms around my neck," he orders.

G wants to say something smart-ass, like "I thought you'd never ask." Instead, he just throws his arms around Sam and clings to him like a limpet. As they're rising toward the ship (G has his eyes squeezed shut the entire time) he reflects that being in Sam's strong arms feels just as good as he imagined. He just wishes it were under vastly different circumstances.

Then they're thumping against the rail, and half a dozen hands reach for them, pulling them over, until he feels the blessedly solid surface of the deck beneath them. G has the sudden, overwhelming urge to get as far away from the side of the ship as he can. His strength surges and he fights against the harness, against the restraining hands.

"Easy," he hears Sam say, his voice deep and reassuring.

Suddenly, he's free. G breaks away, falls to the deck on his hands and knees, and vomits seawater for what feels like an hour. Tears stream from his eyes and snot from his nose. When the heaves subside, he collapses, pressing his face to the metal deck, trying not to sob. He feels a gentle hand on his back and knows it's Sam.

"Easy," he says. "I got you."

The feeling of safety returns. For the first time in his life, G stops fighting and lets himself trust. And when darkness comes, he slides into it with relief, knowing that Sam has his back.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam has to hand it to the crew: They are clearly well-trained in emergency procedures. Even better, he can tell they have drilled those procedures so often and so thoroughly that they're second nature. The instant the sailor (and G, the idiot) go overboard, they spring into action, deploying the buoy and readying the rescue equipment.

Fortunately, nobody tries to argue with Sam when he insists on getting into the harness.

He has no idea what he's going to find when he reaches the water. He's automatically slipped into mission mindset - calm and controlled - but he can't suppress the surge of relief he feels when he sees G. The idiot is alive, thank God, clinging to the buoy amidst the churning waves and somehow supporting the unconscious man enough to keep his head above water.

Sam's first priority is the injured sailor, and he curses himself for coming down without a rescue basket. Moving the man without it means aggravating any possible spinal injuries, but Sam hadn't wanted to wait the extra thirty seconds it would have taken to ready it. He cradles the man as carefully as he can on the way up and passes him into the waiting hands of the crewmembers.

"Careful," he snaps. "Watch his neck."

He forces himself to wait until the man is secure, lying on the deck with the ship's doctor bent over him, before giving the signal to descend again. When he reaches G, he shoos away the sharks and secures the harness. By this point, G's lips are blue and his eyes are glazed, but he obeys Sam's command and wraps his trembling arms around his neck. His breath is harsh in Sam's ear as they ascend.

Having G in his arms feels just as damn good as Sam imagined. He only wishes it were under vastly different circumstances.

When they reach the deck, G's sick as a dog. After he collapses, Sam orders the hovering crewmembers to get him to sick bay.

Sam wants to accompany G, but he knows he needs to get out of his wet clothes to avoid hypothermia, so he staggers to the cabin, brushing off all offers of help. His hands shake the entire time, a combination of cold and adrenaline, but he manages to change into dry clothes. He grabs a spare set of sweats, then makes his way to sick bay.

The entire process takes less than 5 minutes. Still, as he approaches, his fears are confirmed - he can hear G bellowing all the way down the corridor.

When he enters the tiny room, the doctor is bent over the injured sailor, who lies in a narrow bed covered in blankets, his neck secured in a brace. He seems to be conscious, blinking as the doc shines a pen light in his eyes.

In the other bed, G is swaddled in a nest of blankets and towels as a medic attempts to dry him off.

G isn't having any of it.

Under the blankets, his arms are windmilling, and judging by the bruise on the medic's chin, he's already landed at least one blow. G's voice is muffled but furious, punctuated by wet coughing as his lungs expel the last of the water. "I said don't you fucking touch me!"

"I'll take it from here," Sam tells the medic. He nods in relief and retreats, right out of the room.

"G," Sam says loudly. "Knock it off. It's me."

"Cold...sharks..." G replies.

"G, hold still. It's Sam."

"Button eyes...KILL VANCE!"

G's head pokes out of the cocoon of blankets, and there's murder in his eyes. "I'm gonna kill Vance," he announces.

"That's nice." Sam grabs a towel and dries G off as best he can.

"Motherfucker...godforsaken deathtrap...pod of killer sharks..."

"Sharks swim in schools," Sam says as he tugs G's wet shirt over his head. "Dolphins swim in pods."

G glares at Sam, opens his mouth to reply, then falls into a coughing fit.

The doc glances over. "That doesn't sound good."

"He's already got pneumonia. Do you hear that, G?" he asks loudly. "People with pneumonia shouldn't jump overboard."

"Was gonna hit you."

Sam pulls a dry shirt over G's head and stuffs his arms into the sleeves. Fortunately, he perfected his technique when his kids were toddlers, so G doesn't stand a chance of fending him off. "The next time something's going to hit me, just yell 'Get out of the way!'"

G's head emerges from the shirt, looking, if possible, even more truculent and mulish. "Wasn't time," he insists. He looks over at the sailor in the other bed. "He gonna be okay?"

"We'll have to wait and see," the doc snaps. Then she relents, looking at G over the tops of her glasses. "But at least he's alive, thanks to you."

G blushes visibly and turns away. "Wasn't nothing," he mutters. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he snaps, as Sam starts tugging at his pants.

"Getting you into dry clothes." Sam holds up his sweats.

"Those are like giant clown pants," G objects. He lifts his hands, which are draped in the too-long sleeves. "And who wore this thing, Godzilla?"

"Those are my clothes," Sam growls. "Would you rather I went digging through your duffel, wise guy?"

G's eyes slide away. "No. Just stop it," he adds, slapping at Sam's hands. "I can do it myself."

"Fine." Sam tosses the sweatpants at G. "Do it yourself."

G scowls up at him. "Well, don't watch me."

Sam folds his arms.

G narrows his eyes.

There's a knock on the door, and the cook steps into the room, holding a tray with two steaming cups of tea. "I hear some motherfucking dumbass went overboard."

"That would be me," G says, then sneezes.

"Shoulda known it was your dumb ass." The cook advances. He's a tiny man, his many years at sea clearly etched in his brown skin. "Put a shitload of sugar in this. It's good for shock."

G reaches greedily for the cup, but Sam intercepts him. "Get changed, then you can have it."

"Fine." G grabs the sweats and throws the large wool blanket over his head. A moment later, his sopping wet khakis land on the floor with a plop. The blanket vibrates as he changes into the dry sweats. Finally, he wraps the blanket around him and sits back down on the bed, shivering. "Now give me my goddamn tea."

"Socks first." Sam holds up a pair.

G swears long enough to make the cook raise his eyebrows in appreciation, but grabs the socks from Sam. He tries to pull them on, but his hands are shaking too hard.

"Would you just let me do it?" Sam asks quietly.

G hesitates, then looks away and hands the socks to Sam.

Sam kneels down on the floor and cradles G's foot in his hand. Like his hands, G's feet are large for his size, and strong. Around each ankle are fading ligature marks from his captivity.

Sam glances up, but G's face is resolutely turned away, his eyes closed.

Sam has the sudden crazy urge to plant a gentle kiss on G's instep. He doesn't, of course, just pulls on the heavy wool socks, then stands.

"There you go, Cinderella."

"Kiss my ass." G reaches for the cup. The cook hands it to him, steadying it as G's hands shake. G takes a sip and groans in ecstasy.

The cook hands the second cup to Sam. "It's good for shock," he says.

Sam lets out a breath and gratefully takes the cup. "Thank you."

The cook turns to the doctor. "Doc?"

"I'm good, thanks," she replies absently.

G starts to cough again, shaking the cup until the tea slops out. Sam quickly takes it from his hand until the coughing fit eases, then hands it back.

The cook frowns, mutters something about chicken soup, and scurries out of the room.

G wraps his hands around the cup and closes his eyes, swaying a little in exhaustion.

The doc finishes tending to the injured sailor and walks over. "Your turn."

G doesn't open his eyes. "Touch me and I'll kill you."

The doc looks at Sam. "Is he delirious?"

"Nah, he's just being an asshole." Sam drains his cup, then takes G's from his hands. G grunts in protest, opening his eyes.

"The nice lady is going to check you out," Sam tells him. "Then you can have it back."

G glares at the doc through heavy-lidded eyes, then closes them again, too tired to fight. "Fine."

"I'll be back," Sam says. "Don't go anywhere."

"Very funny."

Sam walks out into the corridor and closes the hatch behind him, then leans against it, his entire body shaking. After a minute, he pulls himself together, squares his shoulders, and goes to face the music.

* * *

><p>When he's given permission to enter the captain's cabin, Sam finds the man hunched over a laptop, busily typing with two fingers. He doesn't look up as Sam enters, just gestures for him to wait while he finishes. He pecks for five more minutes, then leans back in his chair.<p>

"At ease. Let me guess," he continues before Sam can speak. "You take full responsibility for the accident that happened today and you're requesting that you share in whatever punishment I mete out to my men."

"Uh...yes," Sam says, surprised. "Sir."

The captain waves him to a chair. As Sam sits, he pulls a bottle from a cabinet. "Drink?"

"Oh, God, yes. Sir."

The captain snags two heavy glasses from the cabinet, pours two fingers for each of them, and slides the second glass over his desk. Sam takes it, then waits as the captain holds up his glass for a toast.

"Fair winds, following seas, and nobody died today."

"Amen," Sam answers. They clink glasses and drink.

As the dark amber liquid hits his tongue, Sam grunts in appreciation. The captain nods.

"Jamaican rum," he says. "A gift from a friend in Her Majesty's Navy." He leans back in his chair. "So. What lies should I put in my report?"

Sam chokes on his rum. "Sir?"

The captain thoughtfully swirls the rum in his glass. "Do you know what my ambition is?'

"No, Sir."

"To retire. And," he holds up one finger. "To write novels. Somewhat in the vein of Patrick O'Brien, but with a modern twist."

"Master and Commander," Sam supplies. "But set in the U.S. Navy."

"Exactly. That's what I was working on when you came in. Needless to say, for someone with my ambition, this ship is an ideal detail. Quiet. Low-key. The whole point is to avoid engagement with the enemy, yes?"

"Yes, Sir."

"We don't get many passengers on board, and when we do, I don't get read in as to who they are or why they've been assigned to my ship. I simply deliver them, along with the rest of my freight. Sort of a 'Don't Ask/Don't Tell' situation." The captain smiles thinly. "Shall we splice the mainbrace?"

"Sir?"

The captain holds up his empty glass. "Double rations."

"Yes, Sir."

The captain refills their glasses and leans back in his chair again. "So you can see my dilemma. Officially, you and your...companion?"

Sam scratches his head. "The situation is somewhat complicated."

The captain doesn't blink. "I think I can handle complicated situations."

Sam straightens in his chair. "Yes, Sir. As you know, I'm retired SEAL, awaiting a new assignment. My...coworker is an NCIS agent."

"I assumed as much." The captain raises his eyebrows at Sam's expression. "Non-military, but clearly not a civilian. Highly intelligent, highly trained, fluent in several languages, keeps to himself but takes immediate action when necessary. Am I getting warm?"

"Yes, Sir." It takes all of Sam's discipline not to shift uncomfortably in his chair. "Agent Callen is returning after an extended mission in Europe. I've been assigned to escort him safely back to the States."

"Yes, I can see why that might be necessary," the captain says mildly. "And for some reason, the Navy decided that my ship was the perfect means to transport Agent Callen back to U.S. soil?"

Sam swallows. "Yes, Sir."

"So again, you see my dilemma. Neither you nor Agent Callen are listed as traveling on this ship. Officially, I never saw you. Yet today, you were both instrumental in rescuing one of my seamen."

"Yes, Sir."

"Hmmm..." The captain falls silent, tapping his fingernails on his glass - a tiny sound but one that sets Sam's teeth on edge.

"An unfortunate training accident," he says finally. "The seaman was rescued by two of his fellow crewmembers. While their actions warranted a commendation, out of modesty they both declined to be named in this report. I'll allow you to share in the general punishment. No flogging." He smiles thinly again. "They frown on that sort of thing these days. Just confinement to quarters. Does that work for you?"

Sam lets out a breath he'd been holding. "Yes, Sir."

The captain stands, draining his glass. Sam follows suit, and they exchange salutes.

"Dismissed," the captain says. "And do try to keep Agent Callen out of trouble for the remainder of this voyage."

"Yes, Sir," Sam says fervently. When he leaves, the captain is again bent over his laptop, keys clacking away under his fingers.

* * *

><p>It's full dark by the time Sam returns to sick bay. The room is darkened, and the doctor is gone. The injured sailor sleeps peacefully in his bed. G is likewise tucked in under several heavy blankets, but restless and shivering.<p>

"How do you feel?" Sam asks.

"Suckass," G snaps. "Cold."

"That's what happens when you get hypothermia," Sam points out.

G leers up at him. "Aren't you supposed to get naked and crawl in bed with me?"

"That's actually a myth," Sam says sternly. "Both parties lose body heat that way. If the second person keeps their clothes on, they retain more body heat and can help the other person regain theirs."

G closes his eyes. "Tease."

Sam hesitates. G actually seems to be...flirting with him. Is it possible he's interested in Sam? Or is he yanking Sam's chain? Or just delirious and out of his head?

Sam holds his hand over G's forehead, careful not to touch him. Sure enough, he can feel the heat radiating off his skin, just like on the night Sam rescued him.

Which gives him an idea.

Holding his breath, Sam gently lowers his hand, barely resting it on G's head, and strokes his forehead with his thumb.

G sighs.

"Go to sleep," Sam tells him.

G murmurs something. Sam can't make out the words; then again, he doesn't really need to.

"Yeah, I'll be here when you wake up."

G sighs again, and his entire body relaxes. Gradually, he stops shivering. His breathing deepens and evens, marred only by the occasional cough as he sleeps.

Sam grabs the extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed and spreads it out on the floor. He lies down, and with a soldier's ability to fall sleep anywhere, anytime, promptly does.

But he'll be there when G wakes, just like he promised.


	11. Chapter 11

G feels like he's been hit by a truck. And yes, he has been hit by a truck before, thank you very much, so he's allowed to use that analogy.

His entire body hurts. It hurts to breathe. Hell, it hurts to blink. It feels like there's an elephant kneeling on his chest, so he has to fight for every wheezing breath he takes. His body temperature fluctuates between fever-hot and freezing cold, sometimes managing both at the same time. Meanwhile, his brain is so mushy it's like a bowl of oatmeal (cold), and he's exhausted but can't sleep a wink.

At least he managed to bitch his way out of sick bay, so he could crawl into his own bunk and be miserable there, which feels marginally safer. If he had the strength, he'd haul himself into his lifeboat hiding place like a rat in a hole. But Sam already put the kibosh on that.

"You can stay here," he says when he finds G in the cabin, "but if you pull one of your disappearing acts, I will find you, drag your ass back to sick bay, and tie you to your bed. Do I make myself clear?"

G mutters something profane in reply, but he's secretly glad. It's dark and safe in his hiding place, but it's lonely, too.

Not to mention, his pathetic schoolgirl crush on Sam has increased tenfold since the guy saved G's life — again. So being in the cabin gives G the excuse he needs to be close to Sam without revealing his pathetic schoolgirl feelings.

He protests, of course.

"I don't need a nurse," he growls.

"I know that," Sam replies with that maddening calm of his.

"Then why are you here?" G snarls.

Sam turns the page in his book. "Because it's raining outside, and it's dry in here."

"Oh."

G pulls the blanket over his head, but it doesn't help. He can still sense Sam's soothing presence. G is already anticipating what it's going to be like in a few weeks when that presence is gone from his life for good. He doesn't like the way it feels.

To add to his misery, he's overtaken by a coughing fit, wincing at the pain in his chest and throat.

"Do you need more tea?" Sam asks.

"No."

The truth is, G is dying for a cup of tea, but he'd rather throw himself overboard (again) than admit it.

He hears shuffling, then the door open and close. A few minutes later, Sam returns.

"Sit up," he orders.

G obeys, throwing off the blanket. Sam hands him the cup, steadying his (stupid) hands when they shake.

"Got it?" he asks.

G nods, forcing himself to pull away from that strong-but-gentle touch.

The tea, laced with honey, feels like heaven on G's sore throat. He sips slowly, trying to make it last. Trying to make the moment last. He can hear the steady patter of the rain on the deck and feel the rhythmic rolling of the ship in the waves. It's cold out there but warm and dry in the cabin. G feels like crap, but he's safe in his nest of blankets with his cup of tea, and best of all, Sam is here.

But soon he'll be gone.

G is horrified when tears start in his eyes. He sets aside the tea so fast it slops on his fingers, burning them. Fortunately, there's a box of Kleenex on the bed, so he's able to grab a handful of tissues and then dive under the blanket. There, the tears come faster.

G coughs, desperately trying to cover his sobs, then blows his nose loudly.

"You good?" Sam asks.

G takes refuge in rudeness.

"Of course not," he growls. "I feel like shit and I'm going to lose my job."

There's a pause. "Why?"

"Because," G snaps, "Vance is gonna declare me unfit."

Another pause. "Okay, why?"

G finally has himself under control, so he sits up, throwing off the blankets.

"I'm not stupid," he snarls. "The motherfucker put me on this godforsaken ship so I could get my shit together before L.A. Now he's got the perfect excuse to say I won't be able to handle the job, and I need the job. Motherfucker knows that, knows I'm no good at anything else, which is why he's going to fucking enjoy telling me I can't have it, just like he's always wanted. He told Gibbs to fire me plenty of times, and now the motherfucker finally has the perfect excuse."

Sam is staring at him. "Because you have pneumonia?"

"Yes," G practically shouts. "Because he thinks I'm fucked in the head and now he's got proof, thanks to you. What the hell am I supposed to do without the job, huh? Who the hell is gonna hire me like this? Some freaking mercs? I'll die first."

Sam has gone very still. "For the last time, I'm not informing on you to Vance."

G knows Sam isn't, but he's finally found the perfect way to push Sam away, and he figures he better do it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Otherwise the pain will kill him.

"Yeah, right," he sneers.

Sam's eyes narrow, but he doesn't get up from his chair. "Even if I was, your being sick is no excuse for NCIS to fire you."

"Sure it is. They'll take any excuse. You don't know them," G insists. "They'd sell their grandmother to the Gypsies to get what they want. They've been wanting to burn me for years, and with Gibbs gone, nobody's got my back. Vance has been waiting for this. I'll lose my clearance. You don't get it." G raises his voice as Sam starts to speak. "Loyalty only goes one way with these people."

Sam shakes his head. "I don't believe that."

"Why not? You're proof, aren't you? You gave your entire life to the Navy, and what happens? You get hurt in the line of duty, and they kick you to the curb. You gave up your family for them, and they drum you out. Your loyalty, your service, your sacrifice mean nothing."

G knows he's scored a direct hit. He can see it in Sam's eyes. He hates himself for it, but forces himself to keep going. Anything to beat back the panic he feels at the thought of Sam leaving. He leans forward, spitting out the words.

"If you're not a SEAL, what are you, huh? You take off that uniform, and you're nothing. They might as well issue you a gun and a bullet, because that would be kinder—"

"That's enough." Sam rises, and his book falls to the floor with a thump.

G braces himself. Here it comes. He hopes Sam will punch him hard because it will hurt less than this.

Instead, Sam takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he speaks, he bites off the words one by one.

"You saved my life—"

"Great." G leans back, folding his arm. "Now we're even. So you can just—"

"Shut. Up." Sam raises one finger, and G falls silent.

Sam takes another breath and opens his mouth to speak. G holds his breath.

Then, instead, Sam shakes his head, laughing. "You know what? Forget it. It's not worth it."

You're not worth it.

Still shaking his head, Sam opens the door. The cold, damp wind rushes in, making the pages of Sam's book, forgotten on the floor, rustle and flip. Making G shiver.

"I should have left your ass in the ocean," Sam says flatly.

Then he's out the door, and gone.

I win, G thinks numbly as the door closes behind him.

I win.

And then: You see? He left, just like they all do.

Because you're pathetic. And stupid. And fucked-up.

Just like always.

With the nasty, familiar voices muttering in his ear, G curls into a ball in the small cave of the bunk, wrapping the blanket around him and pulling the pillow over his head. It's dark, and he's alone, which is how it needs to be. Anything else just isn't worth the risk.

And now his chest really hurts.

But not his lungs this time.

Just his (stupid, pathetic, fucked-up) heart.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam feels like he's been hit by a truck. And no, he's never been hit by a truck, so he really has no basis for comparison. But he figures if he ever did get hit by a truck, he'd feel exactly the way he feels right now.

Flat and dead.

Sam was annoyed but not particularly surprised when he stopped by sick bay and found G gone. He was pleased and somewhat surprised to find him in the cabin rather than hiding in some rat hole on the ship. He was angry but not at all surprised when G picked a fight.

He was, however, very surprised when G went as low as he did.

Sam doesn't know what set G off — maybe the guy just really hates being sick — but he went after Sam with all the ferocity and venom of a cornered animal.

Sam knew he had to walk away before he said something he regretted.

But he keeps replaying the conversation in his head, trying to figure out where it went off the rails.

He tries to tell himself that G is clearly feverish and off his head, that he didn't know what he was saying, but it doesn't wash.

G knew exactly what he was saying and exactly the effect it would have on Sam.

Sam reminds himself of his earlier observation: G Callen knows what makes people tick, and how to turn it against them. It one of the things that makes him (Sam suspects) extremely good at his job. It's what gave him the perfect ammunition to take Sam down, hitting him right where he lived.

You gave your entire life to the Navy, and what happens? You get hurt in the line of duty, and they kick you to the curb...If you're not a SEAL, what are you? You take off that uniform, and you're nothing

It's the same thing Sam's been telling himself in his weaker moments, the same voice he's been fighting to ignore. The voice that tells him he's nothing. That the people he considered his family, the people he counted on to have his back, took everything he had to give and then, the moment he was down, kicked him in the teeth. That the second Sam Hanna ceased being useful to them, he ceased to exist.

"Stop it," Sam tells himself sharply. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You knew what you signed up for."

He rubs his knee, which aches from the damp cold. He's sitting in G's hideaway, the deckchair between two crates. He stretched a tarp overhead to keep out the rain, but it's not really doing the trick.

He stands, cursing at the stiffness in his knee. He's neglected his stretching and his calisthenics in the past few days and now he's paying the price.

It's all G's fault, Sam decides, as he limps toward the galley. Not only is he the most fucked-up individual Sam's ever met, he's also managed to fuck up Sam's life as well.

Well, no more, Sam decides as he ducks out of the rain belowdecks. Once this voyage is over, Sam Hanna and G Callen will go their separate ways.

Hell, they might as well go their separate ways for the rest of this voyage, Sam thinks as he stalks down the narrow corridor to the galley. Sam can bunk with the crew – the young guys would wet themselves at the prospect – and G can have the stupid cabin all to himself. There, he can be sick and miserable and fucked-up and mean and alone to his heart's content.

Sure, Callen may have saved Sam's life – despite his protestations, Sam knows that iron hook would have split his head open like a ripe cantaloupe. But hell, Sam saved his. Like Callen said, now they're even. Clean slate. Done.

So when they reach LA, Sam will hand Callen off to NCIS like the troublesome package he is. Then he'll move on to the next phase of his life and never look back.

Which is precisely what Callen wants.

The realization hits Sam like – well, like a truck.

After a second, he also realizes he's standing stock still in the galley doorway, with the entire crew staring at him.

Sam gives a stiff nod. "At ease."

The sailors go back to their meal, and the clamor of voices and cutlery rise again.

Sam limps to a small table by a porthole. The young man sitting at it takes one look at Sam's face and skedaddles.

Sam sits heavily, still trying to sort through the implications.

Callen played him, he realizes. Played him like a pro. He knew exactly what buttons to push to get Sam to walk away, what steps to take to kill any budding friendship they might have had. Not just for the rest of the voyage, but permanently.

The question is, why?

Sam goes over the conversation again. He remembers bringing Callen a cup of tea — the idiot said he didn't need one, but Sam knew better.

Callen was feverish and shivering, so Sam steadied the cup for him. For a second, their fingers brushed and Sam felt...something. A warmth, a thrumming sensation, like a current of electricity passing between them.

Then Callen pulled his hands away and it was gone.

Sam returned to his chair and his book, but surreptitiously watched Callen while he drank.

The guy, frankly, looked like crap: Thin and pale and unshaven, with deep, dark circles under his eyes. Swaddled in a nest of blankets, snuffling over his tea cup, he resembled a cranky toddler with a head cold.

But it was actually a peaceful moment. It was cold and windy outside, sure, but the cabin was warm and dry. The familiar roll of the ship was comforting, as was the steady sound of the rain on the deck. Sam had his book, and for a few minutes, G actually looked somewhat content.

Then it all went to hell.

That's it, Sam realizes. That's what set G off.

The calm, the quiet, the sense of comfort with one another. The sense of connection.

Could it be...could G actually have feelings for Sam? Feelings that scared him, enough to want to drive Sam away for good?

"Get over yourself," Sam muttered.

That couldn't possibly be the reason. Sure, Sam had feelings for G – more feelings than he knew what to do with. But there was no indication G felt the same way.

No indication...other than the way G responded, even unconsciously, to Sam's touch.

Doesn't count, Sam told himself. Both times Sam touched G, first in that Serbian prison and then in sick bay, he was out of his head with fever. As for the way he clung to Sam when he'd rescued him the other day...well, anybody would who'd just been saved from drowning.

But that little frisson he felt when he'd handed G the cup of tea. And the way G had allowed Sam to help him get dressed in sick bay, letting Sam see his scars.

And telling Sam the story behind his first name, or the lack thereof. Trusting him with that information, even though they barely knew each other. And the way he had looked at him, blue eyes wide and, for once, guileless.

Sam feels a tiny little bit of hope flare up in his heart.

For a moment, he allows himself to imagine the possibilities. What if Sam said something to G? Let him know how he felt. Risked opening up a tiny bit...

"Grow up," Sam tells himself harshly. If his hunch is correct and G does return his feelings, he'd respond exactly the way he had today – by ruthlessly pushing Sam away, breaking his heart if necessary.

No, there was no point in taking the risk. Not if G wasn't willing to take the same risk in return.

And he wouldn't be, not with his baggage. After all, the guy had damaged goods written all over him.

Better safe than sorry, Sam decides. He'll stick with Plan A: No more contact with Callen for the rest of the trip, deliver him to whoever was unlucky enough to be his handler in LA, and hit the road.

Done.

A cup of coffee slides into Sam's line of vision.

Startled, he looks up.

The cook scowls at him. "Penny for your thoughts."

Glancing around, Sam realizes the crew is gone, the galley empty.

"Mind if I join you?" Without waiting for permission, the cook sits in the chair opposite Sam's, sets his own coffee cup on the table, and lights a cigarette.

Then he leans back in his chair, regards Sam through narrowed eyes, and exhales a stream of smoke. "How's your friend?"

"He's not my friend," Sam replies curtly. He takes a sip of coffee, and it tastes bitter on his tongue.

"Huh." The cook squints out at the rain, tapping his cigarette ash on the floor. Then he replaces his cigarette in his mouth and rolls up his sleeve. "Check that out."

Sam peers at the faded tattoo on the man's scrawny forearm: 7/5/83.

"That's my sobriety date," the cook explains. "That's the day I woke up in Manila married to my fourth wife and swore I'd never drink again. Haven't touched a drop since."

"You still married?" Sam asks.

"Far as I know. Haven't talked to her since, neither." The cook winks at Sam and rolls his sleeve down again.

Sam sips his coffee. "There a reason you're telling me this?"

The cook shrugs. "I used to fight a lot, back when I drank. Bar fights. Fought a lot my whole life, actually." He narrows his eyes. "Big motherfucker like you comes along, thinks he can take a skinny little motherfucker like me. Thinks he'll show off in front of his shipmates."

"Hey, man," Sam laughs. "I got no problem with you."

"Good, 'cause I could still clean your clock." The cook exhales smoke through his nose and takes a hit of his coffee. "You wanna know what I learned about fighting?"

"Sure," Sam says, amused.

The cook jabs two bony fingers in the air. "There's only two things I know about fighting. One, it's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog. Big motherfuckers like you forget that sometimes."

"I'll try to remember," Sam says seriously. "What's the second one?"

The cook leans forward. "If you wanna win, you gotta be willing to get hurt."

Sam blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Something wrong with your hearing, boy?" the cook sneers. "If you want to win a fight, you gotta be willing to get hurt. If you're afraid to get hurt, don't even bother, 'cause you ain't never gonna win." He leans back in his chair. "You hear me, son?"

"I hear you," Sam says.

"Good." The cook shoves back his chair and stands. "You tell your friend I got something special cooking up for him. Something that'll kill that bug he's got." He drops his cigarette on the floor, grinds it out underfoot, and walks away.

* * *

><p>It's full dark by the time Sam returns to the cabin, and raining even harder. He eases the door open and slips inside. The light over the bunk is on, revealing a lump under the blankets.<p>

Sam takes a deep breath and walks over. G's eyes are pinched shut, and he's shivering. He twitches when he hears Sam approach, but all the fight seems to have gone out of him.

"Thought you left," he mutters.

"Not on your life," Sam says quietly.

G peels his eyelids open and peers up at Sam. "Why not?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't scare easy."

G closes his eyes, and a tear slips down his cheek.

"You okay?" Sam asks quietly.

G shakes his head and quickly wipes his cheek. "Stupid c-c-c-c-cold. Don't know why," he grouses. "C-c-c-c-can't get warm, ever since S-s-s-serbia."

Sam hesitates, then takes one of G's hands in his own. It's icy to the touch.

"C-c-c-c-careful. Don't want to make you s-s-s-sick." G's teeth are chattering.

"I'm not scared," Sam says again. He pauses and takes a deep breath, then leans down and unlaces his boots. "Scoot over," he orders, indicating the edge of the bunk.

G obeys, eyes wide and mystified.

Sam crawls in the bunk, squeezing behind G, and gets under the covers. Then he wraps both arms around G, pulling him against his chest and thighs, warming him with his body heat.

"That better?" he asks.

G nods, even as his shaking increases. Sam wonders if he's even aware that he's crying.

He strokes G's head with his hand, marveling at the softness of his hair despite the severity of the cut.

"You're gonna be okay now," he murmurs. "You're safe. I got you."

Gradually, G's tears and trembling cease and he slips into sleep. Sam stays awake a little longer, reveling in the just-right feeling of G in his arms, then follows him.


	13. Chapter 13

They don't talk about it. But every night, Sam crawls into bed with G and holds him until he falls asleep.

With regular sleep, G's health improves dramatically. (The cook's secret recipe – shark fin soup – also helps.).

The last week of the voyage passes peacefully. Sam claims to be confined to quarters, despite his trips to the galley for tea and soup, so he spends a lot of time reading while G cleans his weapons. (His beloved Sig is at the bottom of the ocean, but it wasn't the only gun stashed in his duffel.) Sam emails his family every day, and G hopes he'll get to see his kids when they reach the States.

The weather improves as well, so G spends hours in his deck chair, napping and soaking in the sun. The cold finally begins to retreat from his bones, and he starts to feel alive again

He also starts to think about LA. The city holds more than its share of bad memories, but now it also holds possibilities. The new job might be okay. And best of all, it sounds like Sam might be there, too. He says Vance mentioned he might be able to find work for Sam. G fervently hopes so. Vance might be a dick, but even he has to see how amazing Sam is and what an asset he'd be to NCIS in any capacity.

The idea of maybe being able to see Sam on a somewhat regular basis makes G tingle all over, and not from the cold.

Which brings up a new problem.

Granted, G doesn't do relationships, but he'd have to the biggest idiot on the planet to let Sam Hanna slip through his fingers. And he's ninety-nine percent sure that Sam returns his feelings. (Either that, or he's the nicest straight guy ever, willing to cradle another man in his arms just to help him sleep. And nobody's that nice, right?)

But that means if anything is going to happen between them, someone has to make the first move.

G figures it's up to him. Sam is the cautious type to begin with, while G is impulsive.

And if Sam rejects him...

G decides, to his surprise, that he's willing to take that risk. That Sam is worth any risk.

As the end of the voyage draws near, he decides it's now or never.

That night, G's shaking as Sam takes him in his arms, but not from the usual reasons.

He turned the light off, so the cabin is dark and quiet, the now-familiar rolling of the ship a comforting rhythm beneath them.

G takes a second to drink in the warmth, the feeling of safety he gets whenever Sam touches him.

Sam's arm is around his chest, his big hand resting over G's heart. G takes a deep breath and interlaces their fingers, then slowly slides their joined hands down his body. And finally lets his body respond to Sam the way it wants to.

He feels Sam's exhale of surprise against the back of his neck.

Then Sam's hand presses against him, tentatively.

G responds, arching into his touch, pushing his back against Sam's broad chest.

Sam presses again, his touch sure and firm now. It feels so good that G bites his lip to keep from crying out loud. He feels Sam's answering hardness against him and yeah, it's just as big and thick as G imagined it would be.

G grinds his hips backward.

Sam gasps, his breath harsh in G's ear, so G does it again.

Then Sam surges forward, G turns in his arms, and their lips come together.

The kiss is everything he dreamed it would be – hot and frantic yet somehow tender. It feels so good G wants to cry. At the same time, he feels that if Sam doesn't get him off soon, he's going to die. He can feel Sam's thick length and wants it inside him so bad he can barely stand it.

G turns again so he's face down on the bunk with Sam covering him, then pushes his hips backward. Sam gets the message and groans, deep in his throat. G does it again, and this time Sam actually growls.

Then his big, strong hands are everywhere, tearing at G's clothes. There's barely room for the two of them in the narrow bunk, but somehow that makes it hotter, like making out in the backseat of a car, the fear of getting caught only adding to the sense of urgency.

G's pretty sure Sam feels the same way. His breathing is harsh and loud in the small space, his movements frantic and uncoordinated now. And God, he smells good - a deep, musky, intoxicating scent, all man.

G hears fabric rip as Sam hauls G's shirt over his head. The feel of Sam's hands against his bare skin is almost more than G can stand, and when those hands finally slide under the waistband of his sweats, he cries out

"Shhhh," Sam orders. G obeys, biting his lip so hard it hurts.

Sam jerks G's sweats down his legs. G's panting now. He hasn't felt this desperate since he was a teenager, his face pressed to the hard cement wall outside some filthy club, the bass beat inside thumping like the wild beating of his own heart.

As Sam pulls the sweats off his legs and tosses them aside, G slides his hand under the pillow and retrieves the condom he stashed there earlier. He shoves it into Sam's hand in the darkness and feels Sam snatch it from his grip, then hears the foil tear. He's pretty sure that Sam ripped the packet open with his teeth, which is just about the sexiest thing ever.

Then Sam stops moving. "Don't have any...

"It's okay," G gasps. It's the one thing he didn't have stashed in his duffel.

Sam hesitates again, but his voice sounds desperate. "You sure?"

"It's okay. Use your tongue."

Sam tries to maneuver G into position, then groans in frustration. "No room."

"Spit," G gasps. "Use spit. Just hurry." His body is shaking like a leaf.

"Got a better idea," Sam mutters. He climbs off of G, hauls him bodily from the bunk, and shoves him down on the floor, positioning himself behind him.

He hooks both arms around G's thighs and drags him closer, then uses his big hands to spread his buttocks, exposing him. G can feel the cool air on his entrance, and then – oh, God - Sam's hot wet tongue laving him.

He keens loudly, too turned on to be embarrassed.

"Quiet," Sam growls, biting the back of G's thigh for emphasis.

G obeys, but he's whimpering from the effort. It occurs to him that he's stark naked and sprawled on the floor while Sam is still fully dressed and in control, but God damn, he likes it.

He hears the sound of the foil packet again, and his toes curl in anticipation. He hears a wet sucking sound as Sam coats his fingers in spit, then — finally — those hard-yet-gentle fingers pushing inside him, first one, then another.

"More," G grunts. At this point he's dizzy and seeing stars.

"You sure?"

"More, God dammit! Hurry!"

"Okay, okay." Sam shoves a third finger in, his fingertips brushing that sensitive spot. G's body practically convulses from the sensation. "Good?" Sam breathes against G's lower back, his breath tickling his sweaty skin.

"So good," G whispers. "God, Sam, so good."

Sam wraps his powerful arm around G's waist and pulls him up on his hands and knees. G can feel his firm cock against his wet entrance, can feel Sam's body shaking as hard as his own.

Suddenly, G wants to cry for real. He's been in this position so many times before, but never with someone he loved. And yeah, he loves Sam. It scares the hell out of him, and he'll probably never admit it, but he loves him.

"Ready, G?" Sam gasps. His voice is shaking, too.

G just says, "Please. God, please."

Sam bends over G, his chest warm and solid against his back. G holds his breath. He knows it'll hurt a little, but it's the good kind of hurt. And no matter what, Sam will take care of him.

Then Sam bites the back of G's neck.

G screams, but not in pleasure.

In terror.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam's a cautious man, always has been. He takes risks, sure, but they're calculated risks, with a high probability of success.

He's never been a shoot-first-ask-questions-later/leap-before-you-look kind of guy.

He approaches relationships, sexual and otherwise, in the same way. Consequently, he's rarely the one who initiates things.

Okay, to be honest, Sam's never really had to initiate things. With Olivia, she set eyes on him in the high school gym when they were both 14 and immediately told her friends he was the boy she was going to marry. With guys, all Sam has to do if he wants to get laid is walk into a bar. Within minutes, he's got more offers than he can handle.

Sam's never pursued a relationship within the military. Not because there aren't guys like him, because there are, policy notwithstanding. And not because he's ashamed of who he is. Sam just doesn't like muddying the waters. He prefers to keep his work life separate from his private life. That way, there's less mess, and virtually no drama.

G is all mess, nothing but drama. He's trouble with a capital T, and the more time Sam spends with him, the more he wants him. More than he's wanted another man in his life, and Sam's done a lot of wanting over the years.

Sleeping with G every night - without actually sleeping with him - is sheer torture. Long after G falls asleep in his arms, Sam lies awake, trying to ignore the urgent signals his body is sending him.

He makes a list in his mind, all the reasons why coming on to G would be a bad idea. First, there's the whole bodyguard/working together/muddying the waters angle. Secondly, G's getting better every day, but he's still weak and ill, not to mention vulnerable and PTSD-ed all to hell. G trusts Sam, a trust Sam knows he doesn't give lightly. If Sam says (casually), "Hey, baby, I'd like to throw you against a wall and fuck your brains out," G might feel Sam's violating that trust. Or worse yet, feel obligated to sleep with him.

Hell, maybe G isn't interested in Sam that way. Sure, they sleep together at night, but maybe G's just so fucked up, so desperate for human contact, that he'd do anything with anybody. Maybe he'd cuddle the cook if it would help. Maybe Sam is just any port in a storm.

"Stop it," Sam tells himself as he broods in the galley. Of course G's interested. He may be messed up, but he wouldn't seek out Sam's touch like he does if he didn't feel anything for him. Sam just has to let him know that he's interested, too. No pressure, but if G's ready to take it to the next level, then so is he.

But that means making the first move.

"Dammit," Sam mutters into his coffee cup. A sailor at a nearby table glances up, and Sam glares at him until he looks away.

Sam knows he's overthinking this. But he can't seem to stop, can't seem to take action. To make matters worse, time is running out. There's only a few days left on the voyage, which means if Sam doesn't get his shit together, G is going to slip through his fingers. Sam has no doubt that, once they're on land again and G goes back to work, he'll bolt from the very idea of a relationship like a scared rabbit.

So it's now or never.

"No pressure," Sam grouses, earning another glance from the sailor. This time, Sam's glare is so ferocious that the kid scuttles away without finishing his meal.

Fortunately for both of them, G is a shoot-first-ask-questions-later/leap-before-you-look kind of guy.

That night, when he guides Sam's hand down his body, he makes it quite clear that not only is he interested in pursuing a sexual relationship, he's extremely interested. And when he grinds that pretty ass against Sam's cock, well, thinking time's over. Sam's brain short-circuits so fast he can practically hear the sparks fizzing and popping. Then G turns in his arms and they kiss and, holy shit, it's even better than Sam imagined.

Usually, Sam likes to take his time in bed. He's a physical guy, and he enjoys sex, enjoys drawing it out as long as possible, enjoys pleasing his partner. When he'd allowed himself to fantasize about G, the fantasies were of a long slow delicious meal where Sam savored G, devouring him one delicate bite at a time.

But right now, Sam's only thought is, "Later." Later he'll take his time, draw things out, explore G's lithe, strong body and find a million ways to please him. Right now, though, it's not gonna happen.

Right now, and not for the first time, Sam thinks of G as a wild animal. A wild animal caught beneath him, writhing and bucking, and if Sam doesn't claim him this instant and for good, he'll get away.

Fortunately, G seem to be in the same mood, because now he's face down on the bunk, shoving his hips back against Sam in a clear invitation to fuck him like there's no tomorrow.

Something snaps, and Sam loses what's left of his control. He growls, deep in his throat, then rips at G's clothes, his hands as clumsy and unskilled as a teenager's. So much for Sam Hanna's legendary finesse.

G doesn't seem to mind. He cries out at Sam's rough touch, and Sam shushes him. It's habit, of course, from a hundred furtive encounters, and like he said earlier, it's not that Sam's ashamed of who he is, it's just they're on a crowded ship, for crying out loud, and if someone hears them and, worse yet, interrupts, then Sam will have to SHOOT THAT PERSON IN THE FACE, because if he doesn't get inside G in the next thirty seconds, his body will freaking explode.

G's naked now underneath Sam, his skin fever-hot, but not from illness. It's pitch-black in the cabin, but Sam can feel the outline of the condom packet G shoves in his hand. His hands are shaking too hard to open it, so he rips the foil with his teeth.

A thought brings him up short. "Don't have any..."

"It's okay," G gasps.

And, oh God, Sam wants to believe him. Doesn't want to stop. Can't remember if he has any lube in his duffel. Can't remember his own name. "You sure?"

"It's okay. Use your tongue."

G is a freaking GENIUS, Sam decides. Tongue is a great idea. Lube later, for the slow love-making delicious-meal-time, but right now, tongue is it.

He tries to wrestle G into position, but the bunk is too small and narrow. Sam's head and shoulders are pressed uncomfortably against the underside of the upper bunk. There's a cramp in his left thigh, and his knee is killing him. "No room."

"Spit," G gasps. "Use spit. Just hurry." His body is shaking like a leaf.

"Got a better idea," Sam says. And now he's the genius, because he knows just what to do. He drags G off the bunk, shoves him on the floor, hauls him closer, opens him up, and licks him deep. G cries out again, louder.

"Quiet," Sam growls, biting the back of G's thigh for emphasis. He decides he likes biting G, likes marking his territory. He's gonna mark his territory in another way now. He pulls the condom from his pocket, undoes his jeans, and shoves them down to his knees. A distant part of Sam's brain suggests that maybe he could get naked, too, but he figures it would take too much time. Because right now Sam feels so much like a freaking teenager, like if he doesn't get off THIS VERY SECOND he will literally die.

He rolls the condom on his aching cock, then coats his fingers in spit and pushes them inside G, trying to be slow and gentle even though his hands are shaking with urgency.

"More," G grunts.

"You sure?" G's tight, and now Sam's brain is really trying to get his attention, trying to tell him something. Something important.

"More, God dammit! Hurry!"

"Okay, okay." Sam shoves a third finger in. He knows when he hits the right spot, because G's body convulses underneath him, his breath coming in whimpers.

Sam is suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. He remembers the first time he encountered G, remembers him climbing aboard the rescue boat, refusing Sam's help even though he clearly needed it. He remembers G turning his face to the rising sun, body damaged but spirit unbroken, remembers him risking his life to save a stranger.

That this reckless-yet-guarded man trusts Sam enough to be in this position, naked and open just for him, suddenly seems a precious gift. Sam trembles with emotion, so much that his limbs can barely hold him up. He sprawls over G, his face inches from the curve of his lower back, breathing in the scent of his arousal. "Good?" he asks, and he's not just talking the physical part. He needs to know that G is okay with what's about to happen, that he's ready to take the next step.

"So good," G whispers. "God, Sam, so good."

Sam feels tears start in his eyes, even as his body burns for consummation. He wraps his arm around G's narrow waist and pulls him up on his hands and knees, pressing against his wet entrance. They're both shaking, and Sam's suddenly glad for the darkness; otherwise, he suspects, they would both be too overwhelmed to continue. Because this isn't just a sexual encounter. This is a mating of the deepest kind. This is forever.

"Ready, G?" Sam doesn't mean just the sex.

G says, "Please. God, please."

Sam is swamped with feelings of love and devotion. And part of him, the animal part that recognizes G as his mate, is aroused as hell. He wants to take G hard and yes, give him pleasure, but also claim him as his own. Wants everyone to know that G belongs to Sam, body and soul, and everybody else needs to back the fuck off.

So Sam leans over, glorying in the feel of G's body beneath his own, and bites the back of G's neck.

And G screams.

"Jesus Christ!" Sam backpeddles so rapidly he hits his head on the iron rail of the bunk and sees stars. His heart thumps like fist pounding on his chest. "What the fuck?"

He hears G scrabbling about in the dark, breath hitching.

"Hang on," Sam says. His hands fumble for the light switch, but he's dizzy and uncoordinated. "Just hang on."

"Clothes," G mutters. Sam feels his hands frantically patting the floor, brushing against Sam's body.

Sam's hand encounters G's sweat pants, tossed aside on the floor. "Here," he says, holding them out. He feels the fabric ripped from his hand, hears G srambling to put them on, sobbing in panic. Sam takes a moment to pull himself together, ripping the condom off and pulling up his jeans.

It only takes a second or two, but it's too long. Even as Sam's fingers hit the switch for the dim reading lamp over the bunk, G is on his feet and heading for the door.

Sam lunges. His only thought is to stop G from hurting himself. He grabs G's ankle, bringing him down, and hauls him back across the floor on his belly, away from the door.

Quick as a snake, G twists. Sam sees his foot coming and dodges the strike, which is why it only breaks his nose instead of his neck.

It hurts like a motherfucker and feels like he just got kicked in the face by a panicked horse, and yes, Sam may be a New Yorker born and bred but he knows what that feels like because it happened once in some shitty little village in Afghanistan.

Sam's head snaps back with the impact, and he releases his grip on G's ankle. G dives for his duffel, and now Sam knows he's in real trouble. He's seen men in full-on flashback mode before. When it happens, a guy could kill his best friend and not even recognize him. God only knows how many weapons G's got in that bag, but if he gets his hands on one, there's a good chance Sam could wind up dead, not to mention some poor son-of-a-bitch on night watch who hears the commotion and comes through that door.

Using the pain as fuel and his weight as an advantage, Sam launches himself at G, bringing him down just as his fingers touch the duffle. If G was at full strength he'd have a fighting chance. Fortunately for Sam he's still weak and a little slow. He manages to get the garrote off his left wrist and whips it with backward both hands, aiming for Sam's neck. If he gets it around and pulls it tight, he can strangle the bigger man even as he holds him to the floor.

Sam's ready, though. He grabs G's right wrist, breaking his grip, then his left. He yanks both arms back, gets him in a headlock, and holds him down.

"Calm down," he orders.

"Get off me!" G hisses, writhing. He snaps his head back, barely missing Sam's broken nose. It makes Sam furious. His vision goes red as his own battle rage emerges, and he tightens his grip.

"Hold still, you stupid son of a bitch! Don't make me break your wrist, because I swear to God I will!"

G continues to fight. He's growling at this point, completely out of his head, and Sam actually has to strain to hold him still.

"God-dammit, G!" he snaps. "It's me! It's Sam!"

"I'll kill you." G's voice sounds like he's possessed. "I'll kill you."

Sam knows G's back in that prison, which gives him an idea. "Agent Callen!" he barks, making his voice as deep and authoritative as he can. "Get a hold of yourself! Now!"

It's like Sam flipped a switch. G instantly stops struggling and lies still, except for his ragged breathing. Finally, he speaks, his voice thin and hoarse.

"Sam?"

Sam's body sags in relief, although he doesn't release his hold. "Yeah, G, it's me."

"Sam?" There's a note of panic now.

"It's me, baby. I'm not him."

G starts to shake as the adrenaline drains from his body. "What happened?"

"You freaking flipped out on me, is what happened," Sam growls.

"Why?"

"You tell me," Sam snaps. Now that his own adrenaline is fading, he can feel the intense pain in his nose and sense the blood gushing down his face. "I'm gonna let go, but you gotta stay down, okay?"

"Okay."

"You promise?"

"Promise."

Sam slowly releases his grip on G's wrists, ready to grab on again if he makes a move. G doesn't stir, and Sam eases back until he's sitting on his heels.

"Okay, roll over."

G slowly rolls over on his back, letting his arms fall to both sides of his head. He looks up at Sam, chest heaving as he gasps for air. They're both breathless and bruised and tearful and at this point, their earlier mood is fucking RUINED.

"That fucking does it," Sam says, his voice flat. "You and I are gonna have a talk. Right fucking now."


	15. Chapter 15

G's freezing. Again. He's fully dressed now, down to Sam's wool socks, and wrapped in a blanket, but he can't get warm and his hands won't stop shaking.

Meanwhile, Sam has changed into a clean shirt, then taken a minute to re-set his broken nose, causing it to bleed afresh.

Now they're both seated cross-legged on the floor of the cabin, backs against opposite walls, squaring off. Sam's holding a wet washcloth against his nose. He also holds a bottle of whiskey, procured from the depths of his duffel.

He unscrews the cap and proffers the bottle to G, who shakes his head. Not that he doesn't want a drink, but he doesn't want Sam to see how much his hands are trembling.

Sam takes a swallow, then grimaces. "You want to tell me what just happened?"

G shakes his head.

"Too bad, 'cause you're gonna."

G shakes his head again.

Sam narrows his eyes, then shrugs. "Fine. But when we get to LA, I'm telling NCIS you're not fit for duty."

The words fly out of G's mouth before he can stop them. "You wouldn't!"

"Try me." Sam tosses the washcloth aside and leans forward, his dark eyes boring into G's. "I get how much your work means to you. But what if you lose control on the job and get one of your co-workers killed? Or worse yet, kill them yourself because you don't recognize them – like you almost just killed me?"

"I wasn't—" G bites his lip, then tries again. "I would never do that. I can handle work."

"Bullshit." Sam's voice changes, becomes wheedling. "Look, either you talk to me, or you talk to some shrink in LA. Your choice."

G sets his jaw, then shakes his head.

"Come on, G. You can trust me."

G shakes his head again and shivers.

Sam looks at him for a long moment. "Fine. If you won't talk, I will." He toys with the bottle a minute, then takes a deep breath and begins.

"Okay, here it is. I feel like we've got something going here between us, something good. And I know you feel the same way, or you wouldn't have started the ball rolling tonight. So to speak. I really want things to work out between us, but—"

"Oh, my God." G stands. "You're dumping me."

Sam stares up at him. "I can't exactly dump you when we're not exactly together."

"But you want out." G folds his arms against his chest, hoping it will somehow stop the pain.

"I never said—"

"It's okay." To his shame, G hears his voice wobble. "I knew you'd walk away sooner or later."

"For crying out loud!" Sam interrupts. "Would you just sit down and listen to me, you moron?"

G feels a glimmer of hope. Sam points to the floor.

"Sit. I just need to tell you some stuff."

G sits, but keeps his arms wrapped protectively around himself, just in case.

Sam takes a long breath and toys with the bottle some more. Finally, he speaks. "Okay. Where I come from, being gay wasn't an option. Hell, it's still not an option. It wasn't an option in the military either, although they say that's changing."

Sam pauses to take a swig from the bottle. "But just because it wasn't an option didn't mean I didn't know who I was." He looks at G. "You get what I mean?"

G nods.

"Figured you would." Sam picks at the label on the bottle with his thumbnail, an uncharacteristically restless movement. "I tried to pretend I didn't know, of course. Tried to be normal, whatever that is. I tried to be..."He pauses, searching for the right words. "The person everybody wanted me to be, the person I wanted to be. Loving husband, devoted father, good soldier."

He looks at G again. "I kinda lied to you earlier, when I said Olivia and I broke up because Navy life was too hard on our marriage."

Sam shakes his head ruefully. "The truth is, Navy life suited us both just fine. She had her world and I had mine. She had the house and the kids, I had my work. We saw each other a couple times a year. "

"Did she know?" G asks quietly.

"That I was banging guys on the side? Of course she knew. Hell, she probably knew I was gay before I did. But she was willing to overlook it."

"Why?" G asks. Just the sound of Sam's voice is having a soothing effect on him. He feels a little warmer, and his hands have almost stopped shaking.

Sam laughs bitterly. "Good question. I guess...her parents were kinda old-school. Her old man had a ton of women on the side. Everyone knew, but nobody talked about it. Her mother's only rule was that he not embarrass her in public. So he played the role she wanted him to play — loving father, dutiful husband, church elder, member of the community. Sound familiar?" Sam's lips twist in a sardonic smile. "In return she never asked any questions about where he spent his nights. Olivia and I basically lived out the same pattern."

"So what happened?"

Sam shrugs. "I just couldn't stand myself anymore, you know? Living that way, living on the down-low — that wasn't who I wanted to be as a man. Maybe it was seeing so many good men die in Afghanistan. I figured if I was going to die, at least I wanted to die as an honest man, not a liar. I wanted to be able to look at myself in the mirror again."

Sam pauses. "And in a funny way, I felt like Olivia deserved better. She deserved a man who would love her the way she deserves to be loved, not as some kind of prop that made him seem like a regular guy. And the kids definitely deserved better than to have their parents live a lie." Sam shakes his head. "I guess I was pretty naïve."

"She didn't take the news well?" G asks.

Sam laughs again, harshly. "Understatement."

"So that's when you got divorced?"

Sam nods and takes a long drink from the bottle. "I told her she could have it all — the house, the money, my pension. All I wanted was to continue to have a relationship with my children and play a role in their lives."

"So that's the one thing she took away from you."

"You got it." Sam raises the bottle again.

"My turn." G holds out his hand for the bottle, and Sam passes it over. G takes a swallow, more to keep it from Sam than because he really wants it. The stuff makes his throat burn.

"Don't get me wrong," Sam says. "I get that she was hurt and angry and humiliated. I guess I just hoped she wouldn't take it out on the kids, or make them a pawn in our messed-up relationship."

"Yeah, but you broke Rule Number One," G points out, taking another swig.

Sam frowns. "What's that?"

"Don't Ask, Don't Tell," G says. "Isn't that how her parents did it?"

"Pretty much." Sam nods, then hesitates.

"What?" G prompts.

Sam sighs. "When we got divorced, I agreed not to tell anyone the real reason why, at least not right away. We just cited irreconcilable differences."

"Even with the kids?"

"Especially with the kids." Sam wiggles his hand for the bottle, and G reluctantly passes it over. "Olivia convinced me to wait, that the shock of the divorce would be too much as it was, let alone telling them that their father was—"

Sam shakes his head. "I shouldn't have said yes, but I felt so guilty...And I figured we'd wait a while, give the kids a chance to adjust, and then tell them together."

"Hasn't happened?" G asks.

"Nope." Sam takes a drink.

"How long?"

"Almost two years." Sam replaces the cap on the bottle.

"And in the meantime, you hardly ever get to see the kids."

"Right. And then only if I promise not to tell them."

"That's not fair," G says heatedly. "You're their father. You deserve to have a relationship with your kids, despite what's going on between the two of you. What if you got killed and they never got a chance—" He breaks off, breathing heavily.

Sam is watching him closely. "Touched a nerve?"

G scowls. "Gimme the damn bottle."

Sam passes it over.

G unscrews the cap and takes another hit. He's starting to relish the burn. "So why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I want you to know where I'm coming from." Irritated, Sam rubs his bald head. "Look, I was never out on the job, even after the divorce. Not because I was ashamed. I just figured I didn't want to muddy the waters. Mix work and pleasure, that sort of thing."

"Makes sense."

"I tried to be out in my private life but it hasn't exactly worked out like I hoped. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"Sure." G shrugs. "It means you want to keep whatever this is—" He waves a hand vaguely between them. "A secret."

"No, you fucking moron. It means I'm in love with you."

G spits whiskey. "What?"

Sam scowls. "Don't give me that crap. You have to know how I feel about you."

"I...yeah...I mean, I never thought..." G sputters.

"You never thought I'd say it?" Sam challenges.

"No. I mean, I didn't..."

G breaks off, completely flabbergasted. Part of him is so damn happy it feels like his heart could burst. The other part is so terrified he wants to start running and never stop.

He realizes Sam is watching him closely, and tries again.

"What I'm saying is—"

"What you're saying is that you don't want me to say it." Sam's voice is flat with disappointment.

"No!" G says quickly. "That's not it! It's just that..."

No one's ever said that to me before.

"It's just...I mean…" G takes a deep breath. "I mean...I mean, I don't mind you saying it," he finishes, feeling completely lame.

"G, I get who you are, all right? I don't expect you to say it back."

G starts to reply, but Sam holds up his hand.

"Just let me finish, okay?"

G falls silent.

"If you don't feel the same way about me—"

"I do—" G breaks off, biting his lip.

"What?" Sam asks.

It's like there's a hand around G's throat, squeezing tight. He manages to eke out a whisper. "I do feel..."

Sam leans closer. "Yes?"

The hand squeezes tighter, and G breaks off. Tears start in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says miserably.

Sam's face softens. "G, I get it. You're not the most verbal guy to begin with."

G shakes his head, furious with himself. "Doesn't matter. I should be able to tell you how I feel."

"Let me guess," Sam says gently. "You've only ever said it once, and then it was for an op and it was a lie."

G's blushes. "Pretty much."

"Like I said, I don't expect you to say it back."

"But I want to," G insists. "I just...can't. I'm sorry."

Sam shrugs. "Maybe you will some day. Maybe not. Either way, I think we've got a good thing going, don't you?"

"Yeah," G says breathlessly. "Oh, hell, yeah."

"I'd really like to keep it going." Sam tilts his head. "How about you?"

Overwhelmed, G nods. He can't believe Sam is giving him another chance.

"Okay, then. We want the same thing." Sam leans forward. "But there's one thing I want from you, G Callen, and it's a deal-breaker."

"Name it," G says eagerly.

"I want honesty," Sam says, his voice flat. "I'm not doing this any other way. I've lived a lie for too long, and I'm not doing it one fucking minute longer." He leans back. "I deserve better. Hell, you deserve better. But if you can't live up to that, you'd better walk now, understand?"

G hesitates. "I don't—"

Sam interrupts. His eyes are fierce, and he spits out every word. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

G shakes his head, feeling like a complete idiot. "No."

"When I say honesty," Sam says carefully. "I mean no secrets between us. Ever. Starting right now."

G stares at Sam. The hand around his throat tightens again. "I can't—"

"Yeah, you can," Sam says . "You're gonna tell me everything that happened on that op, everything I did that's freaking you out. I am your partner and I have your back. That means you can tell me anything."

G feels tears start in his eyes again. Somehow, he manages to find his voice, even if it's only a tiny whisper. "But I don't want you to know."

Sam's face gentles again. "Aw, baby, you think anything you say — anything that happened to you — is gonna change how I feel about you?"

G nods helplessly. The cold is back, worse than ever, and his whole body is shaking.

Sam unfolds his legs and holds out his arms. "C'mere."

G hesitates, and Sam beckons. "Come here, you freaking idiot."

G manages to untangle his limbs and crawl forward. He reaches out a trembling hand, and Sam grasps his wrist and pulls him in. They assume their usual position, G's back against Sam's chest. Sam tucks the blanket around G and then wraps his arms and legs around him so that he's enfolded in Sam's warm, solid strength.

"Better?" Sam asks.

G nods.

Sam holds G tighter, hugging him, and kisses the top of his head. G feels the way he does whenever he's in Sam's arms — safe and cherished. The tension loosens in his chest and the hand around his throat eases its grip.

G takes a deep breath.

"Okay," he says softly. "Okay, I'll tell you."


	16. Chapter 16

G's voice is brisk and nonchalant. Factual, like he's giving a report. Sam can tell he's slipped into ops mode.

"About six months ago, Gibbs and I realized we had a serious security breach in the Balkans. You know NCIS and the CIA run joint operations in Europe, right?" he asks, twisting around to look up at Sam.

"No, but it makes sense," Sam says. "Most people don't even know NCIS exists. Or if they do, they just think of them as glorified MPs. They've got a lower profile so..."

"So we come in handy every now and then," G finishes, turning back. "Not that the CIA likes to admit it."

"Most agencies don't like to share credit," Sam says. He's resisting the urge to run a soothing hand over G's head. Instead, he tightens his arms around him, and G leans back against Sam's chest with a sigh. "How long did you and Gibbs work together?"

"Jesus, I don't know. Years. Pretty much the longest assignment I ever had. I freelanced for most of the agencies, but I bounced around a lot. Probably because I don't play well with others." G grins.

"Mmm-hmm." Sam wonders if G's aware he used the same phrase to describe his early life, moving from one foster home to another.

"Anyway," G continues, "we knew there was a leak and that one of our assets had probably been turned, but we had no idea who it was. We figured the best strategy was to introduce false intel into the system and watch where it led."

"Sure," Sam says. "Like a virus in a computer."

"Exactly." G nods in approval. "But we had to figure out how to release the information in a way that was believable. If anyone suspected it was a fake op, we'd be dead in the water."

"Makes sense."

"So...there was this CIA asset. Serbian military intelligence. Turns out he had a weakness. A type."

Sam feels his throat constrict, but forces his voice to stay even. "And are you his type?"

"Well, I could be," G points out. "For the op."

"Right. I forgot I who I was dealing with." G hesitates, and Sam gives him a reassuring squeeze. "Go on."

"Well, the CIA plan was to blackmail him, but Gibbs and I thought that was weak. Times are changing, you know? Sure, the guy has a wife and kids at home, but who gives a shit these days, right?" G breaks off. "Sorry. I didn't think—"

"It's okay," Sam says. "I'm not offended."

"Good. I need a drink," G says abruptly. Sam hands him the bottle, and then watches G's Adam's apple bob as he takes a hefty swig. "Take it easy, son," he advises, pulling the bottle away.

G wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "Where was I?" he asks. His voice sounds a little slurred.

"CIA," Sam says, taking his own hit off the bottle. "Blackmail."

"Right." G's voice becomes brisk again. "Anyway, Gibbs also thought blackmail was too risky. The guy could turn on us, right? And then we'd be worse off."

"So was it his idea that you go undercover?"

G hesitates. "No."

"Don't lie to me, G."

"I'm not." G twists around to look at Sam again. "We both knew what needed to be done. I volunteered."

"Okay, okay," Sam soothes. He wants to remind G what he'd said earlier about 'volunteering,' but doesn't. "So what was the plan?"

G turns back, slouching down and tucking his head under Sam's chin. Sam gets the hint and rests his chin on the top of G's head. "We knew what this guy liked to do to prisoners. We have records on him going back to the '80s. So I went in as a low-level operative, kind of a flunkey — a guy in way over his head. "

"Wait a sec. You said this guy was a CIA asset."

"Unofficially, sure. Officially, it was his job to detain and interrogate all foreign operatives. They picked me up within twenty-four hours of crossing the border. Questioned me for a few days until I spilled the beans."

"Why—" Sam breaks off, biting his lip.

"It had to be that way," G insists. "That was the whole point of the op. The guy had to feel like he had won the information, that it was some kind of prize that only he had been able to get. If I had just strolled in there and talked, it would have seemed suspicious. Sure enough, he sold the intel to the highest bidder and from there Gibbs just followed the trail. The plan worked."

"And you being left in that prison to rot, was that part of the plan, too?"

"Of course," G says defensively. "If you had picked me up sooner, it would have been a red flag."

"Okay, okay, I get it." Sam's voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "So, the CIA was okay with this whole thing?"

"Sure." G sounds surprised by the question.

"What if the guy hadn't taken the bait?"

G shrugs. "We knew he would."

"How?"

G sounds smug. "Because I'm good."

Before he can stop himself, Sam grabs G's upper arms and spins him around, shaking him. "How can you—" He breaks off.

"How can I what?" G's eyes narrow in fury. "Listen. Female agents do this shit all the time. You think you're so tough, Mister Badass SEAL? You should meet some of the women I've worked with."

"Okay, okay." Sam lets go, holding his hands out in surrender. "I didn't mean—"

"Bullshit!" G's voice wobbles. "You said nothing I say would change how you feel about me."

"It doesn't," Sam says quickly. "It's just..." He runs his hands over his face and tries again. "I just don't like the thought of anyone hurting you. And don't give me that crap about how it didn't really happen because you were someone else for the op."

G turns away, then takes a drink and sets the bottle on the floor with a clink. "I'll get over it."

"Sure you will," Sam says sarcastically. "Except for the fact that you just tried to kill me."

G bows his head, and his voice is anguished. "I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean to, I just...I don't know what happened."

"I know exactly what happened," Sam says. "For a moment there, you thought I was him. You thought I was the guy who—" He bites his lip to keep from saying the word.

Then he very, very carefully lays his palm over the nape of G's neck, where he bit him earlier.

G shudders.

"What happened here?" Sam asks softly.

G shakes his head.

Just as carefully, Sam leans forward and kisses the spot. "What happened? It's okay, baby, you can tell me," he whispers against G's skin.

G draws in on himself, pulling up his knees and burying his head in his arms. Sam responds by hugging him closer and rocking him slowly back and forth. Their faces are side-by-side, their eyes closed, their breathing in sync.

"He bit me," G whispers. "And he..." His reaches up, his hand fumbling at his close-shaved head.

Sam takes his hand, interlacing their fingers. "He what, baby?" he murmurs.

G's voice is less than a whisper, barely audible. "He pulled my hair. I grew it out for the op, 'cause I knew he'd like it. It worked, but..."

G shudders again and turns his face away from Sam's, even though his eyes are still closed. "He was on top of me, and I couldn't move because—" He twists his arm against Sam's grip. Sam gently encircles G's wrist with his fingers.

"Here?" he asks.

G nods.

Remembering the marks on G's ankles, Sam slides his hand down his leg and tenderly grips one. "And here?"

G nods again. "I couldn't...he wouldn't stop, even after I talked."

"I'm sorry, baby," Sam whispers. "I'm so sorry."

G shrugs. "I should be able to get over it," he mutters. "I've been interrogated before. And I knew what was going to happen, going in."

"Where is the guy now?"

G gives a bark of laughter. He raises his head and impatiently wipes tears from his face. "I don't know. I let Gibbs worry about that."

"Is he dead?" Sam asks quietly. He can feel all the muscles in his body tensing.

G laughs again. "Why, you wanna kill him?"

"I'll kill anyone who hurts you."

G turns and stares at Sam. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious."

G's eyes tear up again. "I don't deserve you," he blurts.

"Why the hell not?" Sam asks. "What did you do that was so bad?"

"Plenty of stuff."

"Yeah? Well so have I. Seems to me we're well-matched." Sam wraps his arms around G and drags him close again. "I'm sorry I scared you."

"You didn't scare me," G says, sounding like an indignant six-year-old.

"I'm sorry I startled you, then. And I'll consider this spot," he kisses the back of G's neck, "off limits."

"You don't have to do that," G says shyly. "I kinda like it when you..."

"What, do this?" Sam kisses the spot again, reverently.

"Yeah," G's voice is soft and contented. He leans back into Sam's embrace. "I kinda liked everything else you did, too."

"Oh, yeah? You wanna do all that stuff again some day?"

"Oh, hell, yeah," G breathes. "I mean, I wouldn't want...what happened...to ruin our thing." He turns in Sam's arms and looks at him soberly. "I had a blood test when we got to Spain. He didn't...I mean, the guy's a sick fuck, but he's not stupid. He was careful and—"

"Jesus Christ." Sam closes his eyes and rests his brow against G's. His entire body shakes with overwhelming rage.

"Sam?"

He's imagining how good it will feel to kill the man with his bare hands, to gut him open like a fish with his blade and watch him bleed out slow. But first he's going to make him feel so afraid—

"Sam?" G's voice sounds panicked.

Sam opens his eyes. G's eyes are wide and blue, searching Sam's face. "Are you...you said you wouldn't feel differently..."

G starts to pull away, and Sam quickly frames his face in his hands and kisses him into silence. "I don't feel any differently about you, I swear to God. I just really want to kill that motherfucker."

"Well, get in line," G says. He leans against Sam's chest and gives a huge sigh. "So where do we go from here?"

"I have no idea." Sam picks up the bottle and take a long drink. G holds out his hand, and he passes it over.

They sit quietly for a minute, emotionally and physically spent, not to mention a little drunk.

"We'll be in the States soon," G says softly.

"I know."

"I'll be working all the time. I might even be out of the country."

"Same here," Sam says. "Assuming Vance was telling the truth and he can get me a job."

"They'd have to be idiots not to hire you."

"Says you."

"So do you want to..."

"See a movie?" Sam teases. "Catch a show? Meet for coffee sometime?"

"You're hilarious," G drawls.

"Look, we don't know what's going to happen over the next few months," Sam points out. "We can keep things loose. Keep the door open. And maybe—"

"No," G says abruptly, turning to glare at Sam. "That's not what I want."

Sam stares at him in confusion. "Okay. You're not exactly Mister Commitment, so I just assumed—"

"Well, you're wrong." G turns completely so he's kneeling between Sam's legs. "You were honest with me, so I'm going to be honest with you."

"Okay," Sam says slowly. His heart is in his throat. This is it, he thinks numbly. This is when he dumps me. I knew he'd never be mine. He tries to memorize G's face, the color of his eyes. In the dim light of the reading lamp, they're as blue as the deepest ocean.

"I'm still the most fucked-up individual you've ever met," G says.

Sam blinks. "True."

"I don't do relationships," G says. "I don't even know how."

"I figured as much."

G takes Sam's face in his hands. His eyes are huge, and his voice trembles with emotion. "But if you want me, Sam Hanna — if you want me, I am all yours."

Sam closes his eyes, feeling relief wash over him in a wave. Then he grasps G's wrists, encircling them with his fingers, and presses their foreheads together.

"I do," he whispers. "God help me, I do."


	17. Chapter 17

"A desk." G stares down at the offending object. "Why would they think I need a desk?"

"No idea," Sam replies. They're standing in the midst of the bustling NCIS Los Angeles Office of Special Projects, which looks more like a beachside resort than a super-secret spy headquarters.

G hitches his duffel higher on his shoulder and looks around uneasily. "There's an awful lot of people here."

"No kidding," Sam says. After spending his entire adult life in the military, it's amazing how quickly he's gotten used to not being surrounded by other people 24/7. And how quickly he's gotten used to it just being him and G.

"I'm not sure this is gonna work," G says.

Sam frowns at him. "Of course it will. You're gonna do great."

G shakes his head. For once, he looks nervous instead of cocky. "I don't think I'm a good fit for this place."

"Give it a chance," Sam advises.

"Agent G Callen?" The man is tall, with a kind, genial face. Unlike most of the LA types in the office, he's wearing a shirt and tie with his jeans.

G's eyes narrow. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm sorry," the man says. "I should introduce myself. Nate Getz, Operational Psychologist."

He holds out his hand. G ignores it. At the word "psychologist," his eyes had gone completely blank.

"What do you want?"

Getz doesn't seem offended by G's abruptness. "I need to debrief you." He waggles the clipboard in his other hand.

G's eyes narrow even more. "Excuse me?"

"I need to debrief you, after your mission in Eastern Europe."

G turns away dismissively. "I've already been debriefed."

"Not by me." Getz' tone is as genial as ever, his smile polite but unyielding. "We can set up a time, if that would be more convenient for you."

G stares at Getz for a long moment, during which Sam finds himself holding his breath. Then G smiles, his face so relaxed and charming that Sam wonders if he imagined his earlier expression.

"No problem," G says. "Just give me five minutes to take care of something, then I'll be right with you. Uh..." He looks around. "Would you like a seat while you wait?" He offers his desk chair.

"Thank you." Getz sits, and G walks away. Sam sits at the desk next to G's.

"Sorry. Where are my manners?" Getz offers his hand to Sam, and they shake. "Nate Getz."

"Sam Hanna."

Getz frowns. "Hanna?" He flips through the papers on his clipboard. "I don't think I have your paperwork."

"I'm not an employee. At least, not yet."

"How do you know Agent Callen?" Getz' tone is bland, but Sam isn't fooled.

"I was assigned to escort him back to the States," he says.

"Hmm..." Getz scribbles a note on his clipboard. "And how did that go?"

"Just fine," Sam says firmly.

"I see." Getz, wisely sensing he'll get no more answers out of Sam, doesn't ask any more questions. Instead, they sit in awkward silence.

Five minutes go by, then ten.

"He's not coming back, is he?" Getz asks.

"Nope," Sam replies.

Getz sighs and rises to his feet, then pulls a business card out of his pocket and hands it to Sam. "Agent Callen can't work here until I clear him. Have him call me at that number to set up a time."

Before Sam can point out that he's not G's keeper, Getz wanders off, his expression as mild as ever.

Sam scowls and taps the edge of the business card on the desk. Then he notices the tip of an envelope sticking out of the drawer of G's desk. Curious, Sam opens the drawer and pulls it out.

It's a regular brown Manila envelope, the kind once used for intra-office correspondence, back in the days before email. On one side are two routing lists, labeled 'From' and 'To.' Sam has almost zero experience working in an office, but even he knows how these used to work. An employee placed their correspondence in the envelope, wrote their name in the 'From' column and the name of the person to whom it was being sent in the 'To' column. Once the item was received, that employee crossed their name off 'To' list and, when they eventually reused the envelope, added their name to the 'From' column. The envelopes were used over and over until both columns were full.

This envelope has clearly been around the block. The paper is old and worn, with a long list of crossed-off names in both columns. But it's been written on recently — the blue ink is fresh and bright compared to the other fading marks. The letters are large, clumsy capitals. In the 'To' column is written G CALLEN. The name on the 'From' side is LEROY JETHRO GIBBS.

Sam opens the envelope, swearing when his fingers fumble with the string tying it closed. Inside is a black-and-white, 8-x-10 photo, and that's it. No letter, no memo, nothing so much as a Post-it note.

Sam pulls out the photo and turns it over.

"Jesus," he swears

The man is dressed in a uniform, vaguely old-fashioned with a high collar. Sam can't tell from the pins on the lapel which country's military, or which branch. The man's hair is dark and slick, his features sharp and narrow, and his body—

Sam swallows. The body has been slit open and gutted like a fish. But this wasn't butchery. Sam can tell by the blade work that it took the man a long while to die and that he was in extreme pain the entire time.

His hands shaking, Sam shoves the photo in the envelope, ties it shut, and places it back in the desk drawer. G will need to see it, obviously, but not here, not in front of all these people.

Sam pulls out his cell. He and G had bought burn phones on the way to the office that morning, and Sam is thankful for his forethought. Given G's reaction to Getz, Sam's not entirely sure he didn't walk right out of the building and keep going to the nearest bus station. He's about to hit speed-dial when he hears a throat being cleared.

"Excuse me, Mister Hanna?"

The young man standing in front of Sam is dressed in board shorts, flip-flops, and a 'Save the Harbor Seals' T-shirt. He has blonde hair, green eyes behind horned-rim glasses, and an open, earnest face. He's wearing an ear piece and carrying on of those fancy tablet computers.

"Sam Hanna?"

"Who wants to know?" Sam asks.

The young man shifts nervously from foot to foot. "Uh, I'm Eric Beale, Communications Specialist."

"What do you want?" Sam feels a little bad for making the kid sweat, but he's still feeling his way in this new environment and isn't sure who can be trusted.

Eric's eyes widen in panic. "Um, I have a call for you from Acting Assistant Director Vance."

"Oh. Okay." Sam stands. "Is there somewhere private I could take it?"

"Of course. Right this way."

Eric leads Sam to a small alcove off the main office area, with an Arts-and-Crafts style couch draped in a Pendleton blanket. Sam raises his eyebrows, recognizing both as genuine antiques, not imitation.

"Make yourself comfortable," Eric says. "I'll transfer the call."

Sam looks around. "There's no phone."

Eric taps on his tablet with the stylus. "No problem. I'm sending it to your cell."

Frowning, Sam holds up his phone. "But I just bought—"

The phone chirps in his hand. Eric gives a slightly smug smile and walks off.

Half-expecting his phone to self-destruct, Sam answers it.

"Hello?"

"Hanna." Vance may be half a planet a way, but the connection is so clear he could be in the next room. "I hear your assignment was a success."

"It was," Sam says. No way is he sharing details of the voyage with Vance, or with anyone else for that matter.

"Excellent," Vance purrs. "So I take it you're interested in the job?"

"Which job?" Sam asks.

"With the Office of Special Projects. As Agent Callen's partner."

Sam's knees give way, and he sits abruptly. "What?"

"Your trip was a test run," Vance explains, "and you passed with flying colors."

Sam's head is still spinning. "I did?"

"Of course. You're the only agent who's managed to go longer than two weeks with Callen without either quitting or trying to kill him. The job's yours if you want it."

Sam's throat is so tight with happiness he can't speak.

"I understand your hesitation," Vance says, mistaking his silence. "Callen can be challenging—"

"No, it's not that," Sam says quickly. "It's just...I'm not trained as an agent."

"Training is not an issue," Vance says. "I can get you all the training you need. What I'm looking for is ability and interest, and from what I hear, you and Callen make a good team."

Sam's stomach drops. "Sir, I'm not sure what you heard, but—"

"Relax. Captain Lewis is an old friend of mine. He says you and Callen were instrumental in rescuing a sailor who had fallen overboard."

"Oh." Sam lets out a breath. "Yes, there was a training incident."

"These things happen," Vance says smoothly. "And from what I hear, you and Callen worked quickly as a team to rescue the sailor. He's expected to make a full recovery, by the way."

"I'm glad to hear it." Sam tries to keep his voice calm, when what he really wants to do is shout from the rooftops. "So, you want me to be Agent Callen's handler—"

"Not handler," Vance interjects firmly. "Partner. Agent Gibbs and I agree that Callen is a valuable asset for NCIS, but he needs someone to watch his back on a daily basis."

Sam snorts. "No kidding."

"You'd better be prepared to think on your feet."

"I am, Sir."

"Excellent. So, do you want the job, Acting Agent Hanna?"

Sam closes his eyes. "I do." he says. "God help me, I do."


	18. Epilogue

Much later...

It's dark by the time they get to Sam's house. Sam turns off the engine with a furious jerk of his wrist, then gets out of the car, slams the door, and stomps down the sidewalk to his house.

He opens the front door, stomps inside, slams the door behind him, stomps straight to the bathroom, and slams that door as well.

After a few moments, G follows him into the house and knocks on the bathroom door.

"Come on, Sam, you can't stay mad at me forever."

Sam opens the door, toothbrush in hand, and glowers. "Watch me."

"Come on, big guy," G says as Sam begins brushing his teeth, hard. "Everything worked out. We got the bad guys. Mission accomplished."

Sam spits in the sink and stabs his toothbrush at G in accusation. "You almost died today."

"Not even close."

"Are you kidding me?" Sam rages. "Those guys had you kneeling on the ground with a gun to the back of your head. That wasn't the plan."

"The plan wasn't working," G argues. "I had to improvise."

"Next time you improvise," Sam says through a mouthful of toothpaste, "tell me about it first."

"Doesn't that defeat the purpose of improvisation?" At Sam's glare, G backs up a full foot, holding out his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. But really, I didn't need to say anything. I knew you'd back my play." When Sam keeps brushing, he folds his arms and leans in the doorway. "Seriously, you're gonna make your gums bleed."

Sam whirls around and holds up his toothbrush. "It's either this," he hisses, "or I wring your neck."

G sighs. "Fine." He wanders into the bedroom and flops heavily on the bed. "Just hurry up."

"You got somewhere you need to be?" Sam challenges.

G stretches, closing his eyes. "No. I need you to get in here and fuck me blind."

"Not in the mood, G."

"Come on. You know I can't sleep after an op. I'm too wired."

"Not my problem."

"I need sleep, man," G whines. "It's been days."

Sam stops brushing. "You told me you slept last night."

"I lied."

Silence.

"Give me a break, man," G whines again. "You know I can't sleep before an op. I'm too wired."

Sam appears in the bedroom doorway, hands on his hips, glaring.

"Come on," G coaxes. "I'll let you do that thing you like," he says in a sing-song.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "You'll stay the night?"

"Yes, I'll spend the night." G will never admit it, but Sam's bed feels so much better than his bedroll on the hard floor. Not to mention sleeping with Sam feels so much better than sleeping alone. "I'll even let you make me breakfast in the morning."

Sam swaggers toward the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. "Pancakes?"

G rolls his eyes. "Fine. Pancakes. Whatever you want." He wriggles out of his T-shirt and tosses it wherever. Sam catches it and drapes it over a chair.

"You're such a neatnik," G grumbles.

Smirking, Sam grab's G's ankle and slowly pulls off one shoe, then the other. He tugs off G's socks and tucks them neatly in the shoes under the chair. Then he gently kisses each instep. G's body tingles in anticipation, even as he protests.

"Gross," he says. "My feet are sweaty after all that running."

"I'll give you a bath," Sam suggests. "Right after I finish this."

With a powerful tug, he strips off G's jeans. G lays back, sighing in contentment as Sam kisses his way up his chest, his large hand working G's cock. When he comes, colors swirl behind his eyelids and his entire body relaxes. He feels Sam settle beside him on the bed, one arm draped over G's stomach.

"Your turn," he murmurs sleepily.

"I can wait."

G feels Sam kiss each of his eyelids, and smiles. "Softie," he says.

"Seriously, G." Sam's voice is anxious. "You could have died today."

"Don't be such a worrywart." G yawns. "I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me."

"You mean that?"

G opens his eyes and looks up at Sam. "Hey," he says. "I meant what I said. I'm all yours, and I'm not going anywhere, ever."

Sam's dark eyes search G's. "Promise?"

G rolls over on top of him, then kisses him tenderly. "I promise."

They sit in the car, lazily watching the sunset gild the beach.

"You gonna get out?" Sam finally asks. "Or do you want to spend another night at my place?"

G scowls. "I think it's time to move."

"Again? That's three times in the last eighteen months."

"Four," G corrects. At Sam's expression, he shrugs. "I don't know. I just feel like someone's watching me."

"Probably that Russian girl you told me about."

"Yeah, right."

Sam sighs. "You ever gonna settle down with me, G?"

That gets G out of the car, like he knew it would. As he walks away, Sam leans across the seat and calls after him.

"One day, G. You and me. A nice house in the suburbs!"

G waves in reply. Sam starts to pull out, but slams on the brakes as an SUV cuts him off.

"Son of a..." Then he sees the gun. "G!"

Everything goes into slow motion. Sam's out of the car, running as fast as he can, but it's like he's not even moving. Helpless to stop what's happening, he hears the gunfire, see G's body convulse and go down.

He fires at the SUV as it pulls away, then drops to the ground. He cradles G in his arms, begging him to stay with him. But even as he calls for an ambulance, G's eyes flutter closed.

* * *

><p>The next twenty-four hours are a nightmare of anxious waiting. Between surgery and recovery, Sam isn't allowed to see G until the next evening. When he does, he looks like death. He's hooked up to a dozen wires and instruments that are quite literally keeping his body alive, making his heart beat, his lungs pump. But his spirit is long gone. The doctor is frank in her assessment, telling Sam he needs to say his goodbyes.<p>

When she leaves, Sam sinks into the chair by the bed and puts his head in his hands until he regains a modicum of control. He knows he needs to say something, but can't figure out what.

He remembers the first time he saw G, barely alive in that cold, dark prison. He leans over G and kisses his forehead, stroking it gently with his hand.

"You're gonna be okay now," he whispers. "You're safe. I got you."

And wherever he is — far, far away in the darkness — G hears him.

He hears Sam's voice, feels his touch, and, somehow, comes back.

It takes every ounce of strength and will he has, but he does it, swimming through the dark waters until he emerges into the light and opens his eyes.

* * *

><p>There are several minutes of chaos, the medical personnel shoving Sam away from the bed while they remove the breathing tube and check G's vitals. Sam talks to him the entire time, letting him know he's still there and that G needs to stay with him. G, meanwhile, beats feebly at the doctors' hands, looking thoroughly pissed off.<p>

"Be nice," Sam tells him sternly. "These people just saved your life."

G glowers at him, but settles down long enough for the doctors to finish up their work. Then he holds out his hand to Sam.

Sam takes it, careful not to disturb the IV needle taped to it, and squeezes gently.

"Hey," he says, smiling so hard his face hurts. "You came back."

G whispers something Sam can't hear, but it's okay: Sam knows exactly what he said.

I promised.

"Get some sleep," Sam tells him. "I'll be here when you wake up."

G raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

"Yeah," Sam says. "I promise."


End file.
